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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



THE 

REVIVAL OF ENGLISH POETRY 



IN THE 



NINETEENTH CENTURY 

SELECTIONS FROM 

WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE, SHELLEY, 

KEATS AND BYRON 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

ELINOR M. BUCKINGHAM, A.B. (Radcliffe) 

INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH, ADELPHI COLLEGE 




THE MORSE COMPANY 

NEW YORK .-. BOSTON 
1898 



SM^^ 



Copyright, 1897, by 
ELINOR M. BUCKINGHAM 

All rights reserved 




EIVED. 






TO 



©t. W. (g. 



IN MEMORY OF MANY SUMMER EVENINGS 
SPENT WITH THE POETS 



PREFACE 



This volume Is an attempt to supply adequate and con- 
venient means for a systematic study of early Xineteenth 
Century poetry. The authors here brought together, 
though widely separated in some respects, do nevertheless 
form a group by themselves in the development of Eng- 
lish literature. They stand as exponents of that renais- 
sance of poetry which marks our century, and they 
should be studied not only as contrasted witli each other, 
but as marking a distinct era. 

So far as the editor is aware, no good opportunity ex- 
ists for carrying on this work in high schools. One of 
the poets is not represented in any of the ordinary collec- 
tions of poems now in use as text-books, and no simple 
explanation of their position in the history of English 
poetry has been published. To offer such an explanation 
is the chief purpose of the Introduction in the present 
volume, which aims to give not only an elementary, but, 
at least for high schools, an adequate conception of the 
reawakening of the poetic spirit in this century. 

In addition, it is hoped that the student will make 
diligent use of the lists of dates and of biographical 



iv PREFACE 

material, which will tlirow light not only upon the five 
poets as individuals, but also and especially upon their 
nuitual influence and common sources of inspiration. 
The selection of poems has been determined in part by 
the desire to rouse this personal interest, in the hope that 
the student will be stimulated to read more fully in the 
authors' works. 

The reference lists are far from exhaustive. The in- 
tention is to restrict them to such books as can be pro- 
cured in a good school or town library, and the works 
selected have been arranged, in general, in the order of 
importance. Many ^veil-known essays have been omitted 
because it seemed unwise to spend time upon criticism 
which is unsympathetic, or which has been superseded 
by later and more accurate knowledge. 

It is earnestly hoped that the teacher will require a 
much fuller general acquaintance with the poets than is 
to be obtained from these selections. Indeed, the book 
is intended to suggest lines of thought and of work in 
various directions, which the individual instructor can 
best determine for his own classes. No book is w^ell used 
Avhich is slavishly used. 

The editor wishes to acknowledge the kindness of Pro- 
fessor Stockton Axson in reading proof, and of Miss 
Sarah W. Brooks in generously giving both time and 
thought to practical details. 



INTRODUCTION. 



English Poetry is generally understood to have died 
with Milton and to have renewed its life only in this 
century. Not, indeed, that no poetry was written during 
the intervening century, but the current was neither full 
nor strong. The poetic impulse, like every other faculty 
of man, ebbs and flows through the ages, and there seem 
to have been three periods of high tide in English poetry, 
separated by times when men devoted their best intellect 
to other concerns. The eighteenth century was one of 
those times of low tide. 

In none of these seasons of depression did men cease to 
write verses, nor is it true that there were no poets of 
genuine feeling between Chaucer and Shakspere, or be- 
tween Milton and Wordsworth; but, so far as poetry is 
concerned, both these ages were characterized by imita- 
tion of great men who had gone before, by care for the 
manner and form of poetry rather than for the soul, by 
feeble attempts of a few men to introduce a more healthy 
style. 

Each age, too, was followed by the sudden develop- 
ment of a free, natural poetry of the heart. In the reign 
of Elizabeth this outburst was in part a result of the 



vi INTRODUCTION 

immense widening of the horizon of inen^s thoughts con- 
sequent upon the discoveries beyond seas, and the life- 
and-death struggle with Spain for national importance 
and religious independence. In our century, the im- 
pulse came with the introduction into England of fresh 
trains of thought from the German philosophical writers, 
and also, most strongly, with the new interest in humanity 
roused by the French Revolution. 

By the middle of the seventeenth century, the fresh- 
ness of poetry, expressing the eagerness of human living 
and the keen enjoyment of the senses, had already faded ; 
for the court of Charles II. there could be no return to 
natural simplicity. The same terms might be used,, but 
epigram and wit took the place of genuine song. 

Moreover, most men who wrote possessed only medi- 
ocre intellects, and, notwithstanding the work of Dryden, 
their verses displayed neither wit nor form; so that by 
the time Pope had grown to thinking years, he was right 
in asserting the necessity for a revolution in the poetic 
world. We should have either good matter or good man- 
ner, if we cannot have both. Most men had neither. 
Pope perfected the latter. His style is generally 
acknowledged to be faultless, in his favorite form, the 
rhymed couplet, which contains some witty or trenchant 
remark in every pair of lines, completes the idea at the 
end of the line and allows no irregularities of metre. In 
our day it is hardly possible to conceive how popular this 
form became, or for how long a time men considered it 
to be the standard by which to judge every other form. 
Goldsmith wrote his two best poems in this metre, and 
Dr. Johnson lamented the offensive irregularity of Mil- 
ton's blank verse. 



ENGLISH POETRY FROM MILTON TO WORDSWORTH Vil 

Aside from mere' form, there was another character- 
istic of eighteenth century poetry. It was the fashion to 
ignore the country, and to live only in and for the town. 
This was indeed natural, when literary men as a class de- 
pended upon some rich patron for the reward of their 
labors, or when courtiers themselves wrote about the only 
life they knew. Furthermore, '^ from the deep things of 
the soul, from men's living relations to the external 
world, educated thought seemed to turn instinctively 
away; " and '' to exult over the ignorant past, to glory 
in the wonderful present, to have got rid of all prejudices, 
to have no strong beliefs except in material progress, to 
be tolerant of all tendencies but fanaticism, this was its 
highest boast." ^ From these statements, we can see that 
poetry, as we understand it now, was well nigh impos- 
sible. 

]^o doubt when the tide has again turned, when a 
school corresponding in materialism, in intellectuality, 
in worship of form, to that of Pope shall have come again, 
the age will enjoy his poetry and that of his school more 
generously than we are able to do. 

Even before Pope died, there were a few spirits who re- 
volted, perhaps in despair of rivalling the master, per- 
haps wishing for novelty. In particular, James Thomson 
(1700-1748), a Scotchman, who had grown up beyond 
the sphere of Pope's influence, and in a country where 
simple poetry and a love of nature had never died away, 
ventured upon two innovations. In the first place, he 
chose to write on winter, and described what goes on 
in the country in winter. He followed it by descrip- 

' J. C. Shairp, " Studies in Poetry and Philosophy," pp. 91, 92. 



viii INTRODUCTION 

tions of tlie other seasons. Here is one of his simpler 
passages : 

" Till, in the western skj^ the downward Sun 
Looks out, effulg-ent, from amid the flush 
Of broken clouds, gay-shifting- to his beam. 
The rapid Radiance instantaneous strikes 
Th' illumined mountain, through the forest streams, 
Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist, 
Far smoking o'er th' Interminable plain. 
In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems." i 

This shows some of his faults as well as some merits, 
but especially it brings out the second innovation which 
he dared to make, the substitution of blank verse for the 
rhymed couplet. There is hardly a line in which the 
sense is not closely connected with the next. It is dif- 
ferent enough from 

" Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, 
And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies. 
Not louder shrieks to pitying heav'n are cast. 
When husbands, or when lapdogs breathe their last." ^ "^ 

Thomson was not strong enough to break altogether 
with the old style. He made use of such hackneyed 
phrases as "eifulgent '' and " dewy gems," and he was 
not above employing the adjective form " instantane- 
ous " when he needed an adverb. In common with other 
poets of his century, also, he used nature either solely to 
fill in a background, or to make a pretty picture in and for 
itself. He never showed nature as reacting upon man. 
A sense of the close communion between man and nature 
is the distinguishing mark of Wordsworth's poetry, and, 

» *' The Seasons," Spring, lines 186-193. 
«Pope, " The Rape of the Lock," lines 155-158. 



ENGLISH POETRY FROM MILTON TO WORDSWORTH ix 

in varying degrees, of the poetry of this whole century, 
but few men in the eighteenth century thought of her 
as anything more than an element outside of man, — to be 
enjoyed externally and to be described sympathetically, 
but yet an entirely distinct and merely physical creation. 
Slightly later than Thomson, Collins (1721-1759), in 
his short life, evinced a truer touch in his descriptions of 
nature than the poets who had gone before. Though 
brought up in the city, he loved the country, and unlike 
Thomson freed himself from the conventional poetic dic- 
tion which with the elder poet often served to hide really 
original thoughts. 

" Or where the beetle winds 
His small but sullen horn, 
As oft he rises midst the twilight path, 
Against the pilgrim horn in heedless hiiyn,^^ 

is a homely bit of description, but close to nature, and 
wonderfully suggestive of the spell which evening casts 
over the open moor. Again, in the same ode, ^^ To 
Evening,^' a few words express the feeling of nightfall: 

" Thy dewy fingers draw 
The gradual dusky veil." 

In the latter part of the century Cowper (1731-1800) 
continued the development of nature poetry and the 
practice of writing blank verse. To-day we can hardly 
understand the popularity of his poetry during his life- 
time. Cow^per was an over-excitable lawyer's clerk, 
who had several times fallen a prey to insanity, had 
been forced to give up his profession, and had found a 
shelter from the disturbing tumult of the world, with his 
friend, Mrs. Unwin. He was a somewhat sadly contem- 



X INTRODUCTION 

plative man, deeply tinged with a religious sense of his 
personal guilt and necessary damnation in the future 
world. This terrible belief brought about, or at least ac- 
companied, his various fits of insanity. During his calm 
periods, when he could feel an interest in the life about 
him, he began writing poetry as a diversion, to distract 
his thoughts, and, in addition, as a means of teaching re- 
ligious truth. He was fond of out-door life, of meditative 
winter morning walks, and he was a close observer of the 
landscape, the flowers, the trailing vines about him. He 
described them lovingly, for their own sake, but it is obvi- 
ous that a man who consciously turns to nature and po- 
etry as a relief from oppressive gloom, and who thus by 
accident discovers himself to be a poet, can hardly have 
the strong inspiration which eifects reform. He was one 
of those precursors who herald a coming revolution. 
Only now and then did he rise to the real passion of 
poetry when, in the terror and anguish of his own soul, 
he wrote from the depths of his nature. 

Undoubtedly the most genuine English poet of the 
eighteenth century was Thomas Gray (1716-1771). 
Gray was, however, in a sense hampered by his acquire- 
ments. He was a student, " perhaps the most learned 
man in Europe," and he saw in preceding literature so 
much beauty that he would fain reproduce it. He was 
classic in a different sense from Pope, for he went back to 
Greek as well as to French literature ; he was versed also 
in ^orse and in Welsh poetry, and everything he wrote 
showed not only the form but the spirit of the works he 
loved. It is true that the inherent quality of the old 
waiters was much the same as that of the Nineteenth 
Century renaissance, and Gray himself had more of the 



ENGLISH POETRY FROM MILTON TO WORDSWORTH xi 

modern attitude of mind than any other poet of his time. 
Consequently we have, scattered through his poetry, such 
indications of the dependence of man upon nature as 

" The meanest flowret of the vale, 
The simplest note that swells the gale, 
The common sun, the air, the skies. 
To him are opening- Paradise." 

Nevertheless, the whole body of his poetry is so small 
that these passages are few, and made little impression 
upon his generation. To break the chains of evil custom, 
it needed a man with less reverence for the past, and more 
abounding confidence in himself and the future. 

The doggerel that was still written by men whose po- 
etic instincts were not so true as those of Gray, need only 
be read to be condemned. Compare, for virility, Dr. 
Johnson^s 

" Turn on the Ant thy heedless eyes, 
Observe her labours. Sluggard, and be wise; " etc. 

with the original, " Go to the ant, thou sluggard, con- 
sider her ways and be wise.'' As for subject, " the idea 
of writing a poem about sheep or daisies seemed to the 
magnificent men of the Pope and Johnson era to indi- 
cate some incipient lunacy." ^ As late as 1800, Charles 
Lamb wrote of the versifiers, " Some of them are idola- 
tors and worship the moon. Others deify qualities, as 
Love, Friendship, Sensibility, or bare accidents, as Soli- 
tude. I have been able to discover but few images in 
their temples, which, like the caves of Delphos of old, are 
famous for giving echoes. They impute a religious im- 

*Wra. Knight, "Studies in Philosophy and Literature," p. 300. 



xii INTRODUCTION 

portance to the letter O, whether because by its round- 
ness it is thought to typify the moon, their principal god- 
dess, or for its analogies to their own labors, all ending 
where they began, or for whatever high and mystical 
reference, I have never been able to discover.'' 

The poetry of Burns (1759-1796), w^hich shows an in- 
timate love of nature, lies properly outside the develop- 
ment of English poetry. His typical work, his poetry 
of the field and the moor, is essentially of Scottish 
growth, comparatively uninfluenced by English verse, 
and not in any true sense reflecting the temper of Eng- 
lish poets. It had a profound influence upon Words- 
worth, but it could not attain to the wide popularity of 
" The Seasons " or " The Elegy in a Country Church- 
yard," partly because, as the Monthly Review said, it was 
" composed in the Scottish dialect, which contains many 
words that are altogether unknown to an English reader," 
and even more because the English mind was so pro- 
vincial as not to understand or take interest in " modes 
of life, opinions, and ideas of the people in a remote cor- 
ner of the country." 

There were, how^ever, two tendencies in literature, 
which were gradually making themselves felt. A taste 
for romance was being fed — and vitiated — by such novels 
as " The Mysteries of Udolpho." A perception that nat- 
ure is something different from the prevailing picture 
of her drawn by the poets, was indicated among 
others by Crabbe, a close student, who painted her with 
all the minuteness of diagnosis and all the truth of scien- 
tific observation. 

In other directions, also, men's ideas were being quick- 
ened and stimulated. In politics the American Eevolu- 



EARLY TRAINING OF WORDSWORTH AND COLERIDGE xiii 

tion liad roused real passions and great energies; among 
the nations, England was assuming the right of the most 
powerful in India, and the stories of the wealth of the 
East were as intoxicating as had ever been the dreams of 
El Dorado in Elizabeth's time; in philosophy the new 
German metaphysics was becoming known in England 
and undermining the materialistic, utilitarian system of 
Locke. 

Altogether, the nation was beginning to wake from 
the lethargy of imagination which had given scope only 
for a hard, practical, worldly tone of thought, when it 
was startled into vivid life and consciousness by the 
Erench Revolution. Immediately there was a vital in- 
terest in liberty, equality, fraternity; there came that 
quick interchange of emotion, that swift tide of stren- 
uous feelings in which virile poetry is born. Words- 
Avorth on his travels, and Coleridge still at college, both 
caught the enthusiasm. One must read such outbursts 
as Coleridge's sonnets of 1794 to appreciate how madly 
passionate was the tension. 



The two men did not meet during their college days. 
Wordsworth was just leaving Cambridge when Cole- 
ridge went up. As early as 1Y94, during the eventful 
year when Coleridge finally quitted the University, he 
became acquainted with Wordsworth's '^ Descriptive 
Sketches," and was struck by their originality; but the 
two did not become personally acquainted till 1797. 
Coleridge was then living with his wife in Xether Stow^ey, 
Somersetshire, while Wordsworth with his sister was not 
very far away, at Racedown. They met, and Wordsworth 



XIV INTRODUCTION 

was so impressed with Coleridge's personality that he 
moved to Alfoxden to be near his new frjend. The re- 
sult was the " Lyrical Ballads," and the evolution of 
Wordsworth's theory of poetry, which might very prob- 
ably have taken a different form but for the influence of 
Coleridge. Though the famous preface to the " Lyrical 
Ballads " goes by the name of Wordsworth, Coleridge 
wrote some years later that it was as much his work as 
his friend's, being in fact the result of their walks and 
talks together. He added that he did not assent to all 
Wordsworth said there, and intended to study into the 
subject to discover the principles on which he disagreed. 

To all appearances, the men were totally different, as 
well in body as in mind. Wordsworth was long and spare 
of limb, somewhat stern of countenance, reserved and 
shy; there was a certain awkwardness about him, both 
physical and mental. Though of a deeply poetic and im- 
passioned nature, he yet possessed a mind and conscience 
which led him to restrain himself, to keep back his emo- 
tions till he had tested them, to reflect before he wrote 
or acted. 

Brought up among the Cumberland mountains, where 
he had been allowed to follow pretty much his own way 
in reading nature rather than books, in playing games 
or rowing on the lake, he had grown up full of the sights 
and sounds of the country. The impression left upon his 
mind by the hill '' statesmen " also tinged the character 
of his thoughts. These men really were what he after- 
wards imagined all unsophisticated men to be — self-re- 
specting, upright, simple natures, with a certain elevation 
of character caused by their independence, their com- 
parative isolation, and the silent influences of sky and 



EARLY TRAINING OF WORDSWORTH AND COLERIDGE XV 

mountain. While Wordsworth was growing up among 
them, he reflected little either upon them or upon the 
country about them, but the total impression they made 
upon his mind caused him in later years to write very 
differently from the ordinary observer of ordinary coun- 
try people. 

When, during his residence at Cambridge, the French 
Revolution broke out, AYordsworth began to be absorbed 
in men and affairs. After he left college, he travelled 
in France and wished that he might aid the revolutionary 
party to adopt a wiser course. When he returned to Eng- 
land, the French still, as he felt, made mistake after mis- 
take. They showed themselves more and more to be 
under the control of passion instead of right reason. Yet 
all Wordsworth's sympathies were called out by the 
events which were happening across the Channel, and he 
went on hoping that the good sense of the people would 
manifest itself. At last, in 1793, when King Louis Avas 
beheaded and France declared war upon the nations, the 
shock of disappointment to high hopes threw him into a 
state of doubt and distrust which was torture to a mind 
like his. He was of too intense a nature to take any hap- 
piness or any trouble lightly, and the struggle with him- 
self which ensued left its mark on his temperament. 

It is generally said that the suffering of this period was 
the sharpest trial through which Wordsworth ever passed, 
and also that Dorothy AVordsworth by bringing him back 
to the love of nature, helped him to greater sanity in 
his whole outlook upon the world. All honor to his sis- 
ter, but it may be that enough stress has not been laid 
upon his own strength of character. Wordsworth con- 
quered himself. The fight was a stubborn one, and when 



xvi INTRODUCTION 

his sterner, self -mastering will gained the victory over the 
softer, emotional spirit Avhich would have laughed and 
cried with greater readiness, and which might have been 
more beloved by the world because of its very weakness, 
he both gained and lost by the conquest. It rooted in his 
nature habits which afterwards showed themselves in 
austerity of temperament and obstinacy against criticism, 
as well as in a command over his feelings which has de- 
ceived the world into thinking that he had few or insig- 
nificant sorrows. It also strengthened an inherent conser- 
vatism in his nature, Avhich made him fearful of reforms, 
and too early deadened in him the creative power. 

These later developments, however, did not show 
themselves at once. For the present, he was living with 
his sister, enjoying the country, and making tentative 
efforts at composition. 

Coleridge, much weaker of will and more wayward 
in temperament, had undergone very different training. 
Though he had lived for the first eight years of his life 
in the country in pleasant Devonshire, he had really 
spent his boyhood in the city, among the crowd of seven 
hundred boys at Christ's Hospital, surrounded by the 
busy thoroughfares of London. His teacher, Dr. Boyer, 
was a severe but excellent critic of literature. Coleridge 
himself said that Boyer taught him to prefer Demosthe- 
nes to Cicero, Homer to Yirgil, Yirgil to Ovid, and in the 
school compositions never allowed a metaphor to stand 
unsupported by sound sense. Such training suited Cole- 
ridge's naturally reflective mind, and helped to form that 
wonderful critical judgment which he afterwards dis- 
played. Unlike Wordsworth, who spent half the time in 
play in the country, Coleridge, during these school days. 



EARLY TRAINING OF WORDSWORTH AND COLERIDGE xvii 

read all the books he could find, devoured whole libraries, 
and was fond of button-holing any chance acquaintance 
to discuss metaphysics. 

Being a brilliant pupil, he was appointed by Christ's 
Hospital to an exhibition at Jesus College, Cambridge, 
where he would have special opportunities to study for 
the ministry. 

Alas ! his character was anything but ministerial. His 
letters during this college period are a sad mixture of 
light-heartedness and despondency, bounding spirits and 
miserable ill-health, industry so long as his friend Mid- 
dleton remained in Cambridge, idling and running into 
debt when his senior was gone. It is impossible not to 
love and also to fear for this high-strung boy. In one 
letter, in good spirits, he winds up, ^^ Without a swan- 
skin waistcoat what is man ? I have got a swanskin waist- 
coat" ; in another he is taking ether or laudanum to 
quiet pain. 

The account of the year 1794 reads like a sensational 
novel, for the rapidity of its occurrences, and their re- 
action upon him. Falling into debt and perhaps despair- 
ing in love, he ran away to enlist in a company of dra- 
goons, but was so homesick that in less than two months 
he made himself known to his family, and in letters of 
the humblest self-abasement accepted his brothers' good 
offices in procuring a discharge. After a short time back 
in Cambridge, he visited a friend in Oxford, was intro- 
duced to Southey, and with him hatched the wild scheme 
of " Pantisocracy," by which a few congenial spirits were 
to go out to America, live in perfect equality by the toil 
of their hands, possess every thing in common, and im- 
prove their minds by conversation and reading. In Sep- 




INTRODUCTION 

tember, in the midst of tliis sclieine, lie suddenly engaged 
himself to his future wife, Sara Frieker. In October he 
was writing a frenzied letter to Southey about Mary 
Evans, his friend in London. " I loved her, Southey, 
almost to madness," he says. " Her image was never ab- 
sent from me for three years, for more than three yeare. 
I have restored my affections to her whom i do 
not love, but whom by every tie of reason and honour I 
ouoht to love." He even made a final appeal in Ueceni- 
ber^to know if Mary Evans really loved another man. 
Then Southey carried him back to Bath and Miss Fricker 
All this time he was writing sonnets to eminent men, and 
showing how ardent, if ill-considered, an interest he felt 

in popular affairs. . 

This vear was the turning-point in his career, ]ust as 
the saine time was moulding Wordsworth. Unfortu- 
nately, in the case of Coleridge, the effect was wholly dis- 
astrous. Whatever hand Southey had in his engagement 
to Miss Fricker,-and Coleridge himself afterwards be- 
lieved that he had given up Mary Evans solely through 
his sense of duty as Southey presented it,-it is certamly 
true that Southey inflamed his already heated imagina- 
tion with the scheme of Pantisocracy. Perhaps, if he had 
never met Southey or Miss Fricker; if for the next few 
Years his mind had not been kept in a perpetual ferment 
in consequence of Southey's gradual defection from the 
American plan; if he could have married Mary Evans 
and been more sure of his friends, he might have enjoyed 
the quiet, loving sympathy which he above all men need- 
ed, and might have been strengthened by happiness 
to greater exertion of will in overcoming his faults ot 
cliaracter. 



GENERAL ATTITUDE TOWARD NATURE \^^ 

As it was, the year was the most tumultuous of his life 
and only increased his llightiness. He married, it is true, 
in October, 1795, and wrote not long after, '^ I love, I am 
beloved, and I am happy." ""The Eolian Harp " shows 
how peaceful his mind could be. He enjoyed something 
of love and the consciousness of love for a few^ years, and 
in 1797 the most lasting happiness of his life came to him 
in the friendship of Wordsworth. 

Walking together over the Quantock Hills, these two 
young men of twenty-five and twenty-seven years dis- 
cussed the faults of the prevailing mode of poetry, and 
decided that the diction ought to be simplified, while new 
thoughts and images needed to be introduced. 

Wordsworth wrote in his preface to the '' Lyrical Bal- 
lads " that, with one or two exceptions, not a single new 
image of external nature had been presented from the 
publication of " Paradise Lost " to that of '' The Sea- 
sons." He might almost have added to his own time. 
Thomson, Cowper, and a few others were exceptions not 
followed by poets in general. 



It must be acknowledged that English poets had been 
terribly hampered by the body of literature and of liter- 
ary men close about them. It w^ould have required a 
superhuman genius to cast oif entirely the tricks and 
mannerisms not only of style but of thought in which 
they had been brought up. Thomson had been compara- 
tively free from them, but he w^as a Scotchman, and did 
not come into the literary world of London till he had 
reached manhood. Cowper never belonged to the lit- 
erary set. In 1782 he wrote, " I have not read more 



INTRODUCTION 

than one English poet for more than twenty years/' 
Burns was the only true, fresh singer in these evil days, 
and he, too, was a Scotchman, familiar with the less con- 
ventional, more nature-loving poetry which, in Scotland, 
had never died. It is to be doubted whether Wordsworth 
himself, if educated in the artificial atmosphere of Lon- 
don, instead of on the wild hills of Cumberland, would 
have struck the note of simplicity which is associated 
with his name. 

It was not only that men wrote in a stilted fashion, or 
that when Pope, for instance, settled down in his easy 
chair and described the moon as silvering the slope he- 
hind which she rose, the picture was accepted as beauti- 
ful without questioning its accuracy ; it was not that they 
did not see nature rightly, but that they did not regard 
her at all. So remarkable a man as Hazlitt took a walk 
through Llangollen Yalley " by way of initiating him- 
self in the mysteries of natural scenery," before he visited 
Coleridge in 1798. At that time he was twenty years 
old, an age when, nowadays, we expect a man to be par- 
ticularly susceptible to the picturesque, to enjoy con- 
sciously a fine sunset or a green forest road. But, that 
we are trained in a habit of sensitiveness to the beautiful 
in natural scenery, is partly owing to the influence of 
Wordsworth's poetry, and to the long train of successors 
wdio have taken their inspiration directly or indirectly 
from Wordsworth and Coleridge. Concerning this visit, 
Hazlitt relates that Wordsworth, looking out of the win- 
dow, remarked, '^ How beautifully the sun sets on that 
yellow bank," and says that he thought within himself, 
" With what eyes these poets see nature." If ordinary 
men did not even look at nature, and such men as Pope 



THE LYRICAL BALLADS XXI 

did not observe lier correctly, no wonder that poetry was 
the artificial, untrue thing it had become. 

Of course there were a few spirits who did not yield 
to the prevailing fashion. Crabbe observed nature al- 
most too minutely; the love of simplicity, started in 
France by Rousseau, had before the end of the century 
spread over the whole of Europe, and Blake wrote about 
children and children's thoughts. 



The conjunction of Wordsworth and Coleridge was a 
most happy one for the crusade against prosy verse, and 
for purifying the two tendencies of naturalism and ro- 
mance which were beginning to be felt. The passage 
from Coleridge's " Biographia Literaria," ^ concerning 
the evolution of the " Lyrical Ballads," need not be re- 
peated here. Wordsworth felt that simple, common- 
place objects might be invested with an ideal beauty; or 
rather, possess such beauty only needing to be discovered, 
and that they might become subjects for good poetry ex- 
pressed in the ordinary language of prose. Coleridge 
contended that the supernatural or romantic is also a 
legitimate theme for poetry, and that it could be so 
treated as to appear for the time being as real and human 
as incidents of common life. In other words, the ideality 
of nature as she really exists was to be brought out, and 
the purely ideal was to be made to seem natural. 

Each poet took up the side that was congenial to 
him. Wordsworth produced " We are Seven,'' " Goody 
Blake," " Expostulation and Reply," " Lines above Tin- 

» " Biographia Literaria," chap. xiv. 



xxii INTRODUCTION 

tern Abbey," and other poems. Coleridge finished " The 
Ancient Mariner " and had begun '' Christabel '' and 
" The Dark Ladie," but did not wait to finish them. 
'^ The Nightingale '' and two fragments were substituted. 
The volume came out in 1798, with a simple advertise- 
ment stating the views of the authors. It began with 
^^ The Ancient Mariner " and ended with '^ Tintern Ab- 
bey." 

To tell the truth, it was so different from anything 
that had appeared before, that the public hardly knew 
how to take it. That it had a sale is clear, for a second 
edition Avith a second volume added was printed in 1800, 
and Lamb wrote, August 9, 1800, '' They have contrived 
to spawn a new volume of lyrical ballads, which is to see 
the light in about a month, and causes no little excitement 
in the literary world ! '' 

This, however, is the style of criticism it received from 
the Quarterly Review: 

'' ' Simon Lee, the Old Huntsman,' is the portrait, ad- 
mirably painted, of every huntsman who by toil, age, and 
infirmities is rendered unable to guide and govern his 
canine family. 

" ^ Anecdote for Fathers.' Of this the dialogue is in- 
genuous and natural, but the object of the child's choice 
and the inferences are not quite obvious. 

" * We are Seven.' Innocent and pretty infantile 
prattle. 

" * Lines "Written near Eichmond.' Literally ^ most 
musical, most melancholy.' " 

Poor poets ! What hope had they of moving the world 
when a well-meaning critic in the best journal of the time 
could say no more, and understood the spirit of the poems 



THE LYRICAL BALLADS xxiu 

no better than tins? It is not strange that, in the second 
edition, Wordsworth felt it necessary to explain his 
theories fully; and in a few over-strong statements of 
the new preface lay the germ of all the future pother 
about the " school " of Lake Poets. 

In this preface and in succeeding additions to it, Words- 
worth gave expression to a great many truths concerning 
the nature of poetry, but among other statements he de- 
clared that the common speech of country people is the 
proper language for poetry, and that no words should be 
allowed in poetry which are not commonly used in prose. 
Very different this, from Gray's dictum that " the lan- 
guage of the age is never the language of poetry. Our 
poetry has a language peculiar to itself, to which almost 
every one that has written has added something, by criti- 
cising it with foreign idioms and derivations, nay, often 
with new words and invented terms of their own.'' This 
was exactly what Wordsworth complained of, for in that 
age " poetic diction " was often the only thing that dis- 
tinguished a poet from a prose writer. 

The source of trouble lay in the fact that Wordsworth 
over-stated his own theory. In these very lyrical ballads 
he repeatedly put language into the mouths even of his 
country characters which they could not have employed, 
and sometimes words which are peculiar to poetry; e.g., 
^^ My watchful dog whose starts of furious i/T," or ^' Cot- 
tage after cottage owned its sivay.^^ 

In addition to this, he seems never to have had a per- 
ception of how the pictures he presented might appear to 
other people. It is often acknowledged that he lacked 
hnmor, another way of saying that he had not a sym- 
pathetic imagination. If an incident affected him in a 



XXIV INTRODUCTION 

certain way, then the same incident with all its details, 
would, he supposed, impress others in the same way. If 
his words expressed that idea to his mind, he did not un- 
derstand that to others the effect might be different. The 
swollen ankles of Simon Lee made part of the pathos of 
the story, and he did not perceive that some details assume 
a prominence out of proportion to their real value, if put 
into words along with others more essential to the picture. 
Why should not his readers take as he did, 

" For still, the more he works, the more 
Do his weak ankles swell," 

or the famous couplet in " The Thorn '' about the grave, 

" I've measured it from side to side, 
'Tis three feet long" and two feet wide "? 

Without the preface the public would have accepted 
such defects as something which the poet w^ould learn to 
overcome, but when Wordsworth seemed to maintain that 
this sort of thing was his ideal of what poetry should 
be, and also attacked some of their cherished favorites, 
then they began to fear and hate him, and defended 
themselves by heaping ridicule on him and on everyone 
who happened to be connected with him. 

It must be acknowledged that, into the most beautiful 
creations, Wordsworth would occasionally insert a trivial 
or a grotesque detail. His " hebetude of intellect " shows 
itself in several of the lyrical ballads, but we might sup- 
pose that the criticism of friends — Coleridge and Lamb 
were no mean critics — and his own natural affinity for 
the essential beauty of nature would have helped him to 
outgrow the tendency. 



THE LYRICAL BALLADS XXV 

To some degree he did autgrow it, but as Hazlitt says, 
'' If Byron was the spoiled child of fortune, Wordsworth 
was the spoiled child of disappointment.'' Such criticism 
as came to him was mainly downright insult. The gen- 
eral public ignored him. The inherent charm of his 
work could not immediately win recognition in a world 
accustomed to something so entirely different. He had 
to create the taste for his poetry, and comparatively few 
men read it enough to acquire a liking for it. For years 
he earned almost nothing by his writing. In 1820 he 
complained, " The whole of my fortune from the writing 
trade not amounting to seven-score pounds." He had to 
live in the humblest fashion, trusting to the rightness of 
his doctrine to conquer in the end. ^N^aturally, however, 
the very fierceness of the attack upon him caused a nature 
like his to cling even more closely to his preconceived 
theories; and, still worse, to cling to the bald statement 
rather than to the essential spirit of them, so that he came 
to insist more and more upon untenable principles, and 
finally to develop a chronic commonplaceness from which 
he might perhaps have been saved, had he not been 
goaded into obstinacy. 

A certain inability of his nature to perceive how an im- 
age would impress others caused an insistence upon triv- 
ial details which was rendered more emphatic by opposi- 
tion ; his inborn reserve and austerity of temper were in- 
creased by the battle with himself after his disappoint- 
ment in the French Revolution. These two defects 
caused the chief blemishes in his poetry; but the beauty 
of the best portions of his work, and the far-reaching ef- 
fect he has had upon the poets that succeeded him, make 
it an ungrateful task to mention his shortcomings. His 



xxvi INTRODUCTION 

own prefaces to the second and third editions of the 
'' Lyrical Ballads " state his theories. Coleridge's " Bio- 
graphia Literaria/' Chapters IV. and XIV. to XXII., 
discuss their merits. When Coleridge writes, " And I 
reflect with deUght how little a mere theory, though of 
his own w^orkmanship, interferes with the processes of 
genuine imagination in a man of true poetic genius, who 
possesses, as Mr. Wordsworth, if ever man did, most 
assuredly does, 

' The Vision and the Faculty divine,' " 

w^e acknowledge that our feeling but corroborates the 
statements of discerning criticism. 

By 1802 Coleridge had. lost his '' shaping spirit of im- 
agination.'' The fatal opium habit was already appar- 
ently his master, and he ceased to w^ite poetry except oc- 
casionally. Wordsworth's power lasted much longer. 
Most of his best poetry w^as written before 1808, but thero 
is a great body of composition, conscientiously increased 
from year to year down almost to the very end of his life, 
and until 1818 there are many gleams of the old light and 
life. 

Without any more writing, however, the two poets had 
sow^ed the seeds of an inevitable revolution, in the volume 
which began with " The Ancient Mariner " and ended 
with " Tintern Abbey." They had pointed the w^ay to 
a simple, natural realism, and had shown that the roman- 
tic could be treated without sensationalism and without 
vulgarity. 



WORDSWORTH xxvii 

Much as has been written about Wordsworth, it is 
easier to feel his charm than to analyze it. Hardly any 
two men find the same elements in it; each one discovers 
special beauties, and having felt the attraction invents 
some theory to account for it. One man thinks his early 
poetry is strong in its appeal to tlie eye; others are per- 
suaded that hearing was his most perfect sense. All 
would agree, however, that " He pushed the domain of 
poetry into a whole field of subjects hitherto unap- 
proached by the poets; '' that everywhere ^' he went 
straight to the inside of things," and that ^' this one char- 
acteristic set him in entire opposition to the art of the last 
century." ^ 

AYe think of him chiefly as a poet of nature, but such 
also were Thomson and Cowper. With them, however, 
and with other poets before Wordsworth, Mature had no 
personality of her own. In her presence, the eye might 
be delighted, the mind terrified, or the spirit soothed, but 
she was always and only a material creation. Words- 
worth saw much more in Xature. To him she was one of 
the manifestations of God, something endowed with a 
spirit of her own. ^ot only that, but diiferent places 
showed special characteristics of this universal life that 
is in Mature. One spot may be laughing and gay; an- 
other, or the same under different influences, sober or 
stern. Furthermore, Mature enjoys this life that she has, 
and seeks to communicate her delight to man. She is 
ready, if man will put himself into the right frame of 
mind, to enter into his spirit. In other words, the two 
manifestations of God, in man and in nature, are always 

' J. C. Shairp, " Studies in Poetry and Philosophy," pp G2-64. 



xxviii INTRODUCTION 

seeking to be one, and the mind, if it accepts the union, 
can create something more lovely than either man could 
imagine or nature produce, without this marriage. 

But the poet must not lose himself in idle revery, or 
give himself up to mere impulse as prompted by the con- 
tact with nature. He must strive consciously to put him- 
self into the mood which harmonizes with the spirit per- 
vading the scene before him. He must not allow himself 
to be intoxicated by the beauty or the grandeur, but must 
wait, drink in all the influences of the place, and sinking 
into the depths of his inner self, in quiet contemplation 
reproduce to the w^orld the result of the insight into the 
heart of nature which his receptive mind has gained. 

This was a sufficiently lofty ideal, and difficult to at- 
tain; but more than any poet except Milton, Words- 
worth had a firm faith in his own dedication to poetry. 
His consecration of himself was the first and most im- 
portant element of his existence. In his devotion to this 
mission, he lived the most abstemious of lives; his lofty 
egotism even demanded and accepted as right a continual 
service from others, as to a being set apart, whose calling 
was of more importance than that of mankind in general. 

This self-consecration together with the habit of 
" sinking back upon himself," and his own conception of 
poetry that '^ it takes its origin from emotion recollected 
in tranquillity," etc., perhaps account for the sense of 
solitude in most of his poetry, that " pure, deep well of 
solitary joy." In reading it we do not think of the pres- 
ence of others or of communication with others. We feel 
alone with nature. 

Wordsworth is not only the interpreter of God in nat- 
ure, but also of God in man; but in this character he is not 



WORDSWORTH xxix 

pre-eminent. His spirit does not so unreservedly ally 
itself with the spirit without. He cannot enter so fully 
into the individual lives of men as into the special moods 
of Nature. When he does not use his men and women 
merely to bring out more sympathetically the character 
of the place, he still shows them too much as abstractions. 

As for his theories about the soul and its past history, 
they have been erected into the Platonic system by 
Wordsworthians, and they have been called only " ideas 
of pre-existence and reminiscence which he liked and out 
of which he made his thought." ' The " Ode on Intima- 
tions of Immortality " and some verses in '* The Pre- 
lude '^ bring out the conception most definitely, but it 
pervades other poems. All of us have at times dim pict- 
ures and half-comprehended images in our minds, and 
Wordsworth, with whom these suggestions were pecul- 
iarly vivid, put them into poetic form. It is hardly nec- 
essary to maintain that he had formulated a definite 
system of philosophy on the subject. 

In consequence of these characteristics of Words- 
worth, we find that his work has a singular homogene- 
ousness. As Blackwood^s Magazine says, " A systematic 
correspondence pervades the whole, so that the perusal of 
one piece frequently leads the reader's own mind into a 
tract of thought which is afterwards found to be devel- 
oped by the poet himself in some other performance." 
His life, passed almost wholly among the northern hills, 
his early formulation of a poetical creed, his never-weak- 
ening command over himself and his emotions, and his 
consequent ability to maintain the same spirit even in 

' S. A. Brooke, " Theology in the English Poets," p. 22. 



XXX INTRODUCTION 

differing moods, accouut for this quality. He did not try 
experiments with his miise, but imposed upon her a con- 
sistent character. 

For his style, the best description is that of R. H. Hut- 
ton: '^ The most characteristic earlier and the most char- 
acteristic later style are alike in the limpid coolness of their 
effect, the effect in the earlier style of bubbling water, in 
the later of morning dew.'' There is a buoyancy of re- 
strained passion in some of his best known poems, and a 
chaste contemplativeness in part of his later work that 
soothes and calms the troubled spirit. This may be said 
of his good work. On the cumbrous heaviness of his 
preaching vein, when the sense of his mission got the bet- 
ter of his genuine emotions, it is needless to enlarge. 



Coleridge was as unlike his friend as possible. With 
a much more deeply philosophical mind, with an infi- 
nitely greater power to suffer, and hence to echo the feel- 
ings of toiling, wronged humanity, with a sense of the un- 
substantial, mysterious world hovering about us, and an 
imagination capable of portraying pictures which lie 
beyond reality, he tried various forms of expression, 
seemed to surpass in several, and then, before he had 
chosen the medium which best suited him, lost his hold 
upon himself and upon his creative power. 

If he had found his theme, it would perhaps have been 
the relation of man to God and to mankind. As it is, his 
best poems vibrate with human emotion. There is a per- 
sonal cry in them all; more than most poems they need 
to be read with the commentary of his daily life fresh in 
the mind. " The Ancient Mariner " is a masterpiece in 



COLERIDGE xxxi 

the domain of romance, but at the end of its vivid imag- 
ery comes the little sermon, " He prayeth best who loveth 
best," as if Coleridge had suddenly forgotten his charac- 
ters, and was speaking for himself. In " Christabel," 
also, there seems to be an undercurrent of feeling that 
pure, prayerful love will suffice to conquer the wiles of 
evil. As his mind was always seeking for psychological 
truth, so his heart yearned for affection. One might al- 
most say that, like Shelley, he was in love with love; 
only that, unlike Shelley, his passion was not for tran- 
scendental, ideal love, but for plain, comforting, human 
love, and trust in God. In the poems which mention 
Sara and Little Hartley, Lamb and Wordsworth, there is 
always this tender love. In the '' Ode on the Departing 
Year," the subject is the violation of the love of man to 
man, nation to nation. 

With this simple faith in the power of love, with his 
far-reaching imagination and his eager inquiry into phil- 
osophic truth, he might in time have solved for us some 
of the problems of life, as Wordsworth has developed 
the teaching of nature, but he was a wrecked man before 
the time came. From his boyhood he had been subject to 
violent attacks of neuralgia, and he had not the resolute 
will necessary to endure pain. As early as 1792 he was 
familiar with the use of ether; by 1803 he Avas the prey 
of opium. It sapped his manhood, and wrung from him 
over and over again tears of blood, for he knew that with- 
out help he had not strength to free himself from his tor- 
mentor. In 1816, after years of fitful, homeless wander- 
iug, he put himself under the care of Mr. Gillman to be 
shielded from temptation. 

His light of poetry was indeed gone out. Happy for 



xxxii INTRODUCTION 

him tliat he could still recover his intellectual sway. In 
his later days he drew about him eager young men ready 
for the impress of high thoughts, and he lived to prove 
that always he was ^' one who loved the light and grew 
toward it/' 



Shelley was twenty years younger than Coleridge and 
grew to manhood when the influence of Wordsworth and 
Coleridge was already part of the literary environment. 
He came from a family of honorable antiquity, though 
apparently of no literary or special intellectual gifts. 
His father was a kindly, worldly, somewhat irascible 
gentleman of no imagination; his mother is described as 
beautiful and sensible. 

The son Shelley would have been an ugly duckling in 
any family. Tall and slender, with an exceedingly 
small face and an abundance of wavy brown hair which 
he wore long in an age when fashion cropped the hair; 
so awkward that in later years he would upset the foot- 
man's gravity by tumbling over himself as he went up- 
stairs, yet so agile that, as he walked through the streets 
of London, intent on a book, he would slip out of the press 
with unconscious ease when anyone in the crowd tried 
to jostle him; with a voice of singular depth and sweet- 
ness when reading calmly, but rising to a discordant 
screech if he was excited or incensed, he spent his life in 
a perpetual warfare between the deep love he bore man- 
kind, and the hatred of the world which was outraged by 
his way of promulgating that love. If ever there was a 
boy who did not belong to the respectable, unimaginative, 



SHELLEY xxxiii 

world-fearing — rather than God-fearing — family into 
which he was born, it was Shelley. 

By the time he went to Oxford he was proud of the 
name of " Atheist/' by which he meant that he did not 
believe in historical Christianity. In later years he had 
a profound reverence for the founder of Christianity, and 
a firm belief in the loving power which he conceived as 
ruling in the Universe ; but he always felt a deep abhor- 
rence for established orthodoxy. 

In those days such sentiments were sufficiently start- 
ling; when they were accompanied by other beliefs 
which would destroy the morality as well as the religion 
of society, it is not surprising that he was branded as a 
demon. He was a disciple of William Godwin, whose 
^* Inquiry concerning Political Justice " had given voice 
to some of the wildest ideas engendered by the French 
Revolution. Shelley honestly believed that marriage is 
wrong, and though he was twice married, he submitted 
against his own judgment to the prejudices of society. 
According to his standard, true love is the only force 
which should bind; if true love ceases the bond should 
be broken; if it holds there is no need of the marriage 
ceremony. 

'No wonder society stood aghast. Strangers could not 
know his deep love for his fellow-beings; his fixed 
belief that mankind left to itself is pure and good, and 
that sham government and sham religion have debased 
the world ; his intense yearning for that perfect harmony 
between God and man and the universe which constitutes 
the true music of the spheres. 

The hostility of the world had its effect on Shelley's 
poetry. When his father refused to receive him at Field 



xxxiv INTRODUCTION 

Place, when the cousin whom he loved drew away from 
him, when afterward all the world cried shame, and the 
Lord Chancellor refused him the custody of his own chil- 
dren, it is not strange that he was thrown back upon him- 
self, or that his mood fluctuated between devotion to the 
cause of mankind and absoi*ption in his own intellectual 
aspirations and personal afiinities. His greatest work, 
" Prometheus Unbound," combines both elements; it is 
the poem of the conquest of the lover of mankind over 
the oppressor of mankind, cast in the highly spiritual- 
ized form which was congenial to himself. Most of his 
poems, however, show either one phase or the other of 
his genius ; in his lyrics he forgets mankind to express his 
own illimitable thirst for ever-unattainable beauty, the 
beauty which is truth. 

His " lyrical cry " is unlike the note of any other lyric 
poet. It has been said that he sings not what he feels, but 
what he wishes to feel, Avhat is almost within his grasp, 
but always eluding him. He yearns with passionate in- 
tensity for intellectual beauty, but the passion is not of 
this world; his desires like his images are highly subli- 
mated forms, always ideal beauty, ideal expression. 

Though his mind in its reaching out did not under- 
stand all the mysteries which thrilled his being, at least 
he came near to a spiritual perception of nature and di- 
vinity, and his very song uplifts us. As a mere matter of 
harmonious melody the poem sings itself into our brains. 
If his words meant nothing we should still feel their 
charm. AVith him, however, the song is a subtle inter- 
weaving of thought with emotion. He has given expres- 
sion to that bitter-sweet, half-comprehended longing for 
the unknown which pervades a large portion of society 



KEATS XXXV 

in this uineteentli century. He has set his stamp upon 
many a follower, and has influenced the thought of latter- 
day poetry even more directly than AVordsworth himself. 
Wordsworth has had a wider influence upon the thought 
of the century, Shelley a more personal one upon individ- 
ual characters. 



The names of Shelley and Keats are often coupled, 
partly, no doubt, because they were of nearly the same 
age, partly also because Shelley in the '^ Adonais " so 
passionately bewailed the younger poet's death ; but dur- 
ing Keats's life-time the two men saw little of each other. 
Apparently Keats half distrusted the brilliant, untam- 
able iconoclast, who fought so desperate a fight with so- 
ciety, trying, it seemed, to batter down the good with the 
bad, and believing in the perfectibility of man. Keats 
himself knew nothing of such championship. The 
strongest element of his early life was his love for his 
own family, and as his affection was intense so it was 
narrow. He had no natural interest in the problems of 
humanity. 

It is hardly easier in his case than in Shelley's to guess 
the sources of his genius. Tradition says that his father, 
a London stable-keeper, came from Devonshire. His 
mother had a reputation for wit and talent. Certainly, 
both his parents must have had more intelligence and 
ambition than most people in their station, for the chil- 
dren were sent to a good school out in the country. Both 
parents died, however, while Keats and his brothers were 
still young. 

At school, when Keats was not fighting the bigger boys, 



xxxvl INTRODUCTION 

he was dreaming away his time among books of Greek 
mythology. He knew them by heart. He read all the 
books on history, travel, and fiction that he could find; 
but he was not studious. It was not till after he had left 
school and was apprenticed to a surgeon that he felt a 
serious drawing toward literature. Then the reading of 
Spenser roused him. He " ramped " through '' The 
Faery Queen" with delight, eagerly seizing upon any fine 
epithet or vivid bit of imagery, and soon began to imitate 
the stanza. Before his term of apprenticeship was over, 
he quarrelled with his master, and though he studied in 
the hospitals for two years, he finally gave himself unre- 
servedly to poetry. His first volume of poems appeared 
in 1817, when he was twenty-two years old. 

For the next two years his power steadily grew, till sor- 
row and trouble and sickness destroyed his energies. In 
1818 he was nursing his brother Tom, who was dying of 
consumption. The next year he was himself attacked by 
the hereditary disease. In the meantime he was harassed 
by want of money, the ample portion left by his grand- 
father having been so badly managed and so poorly ac- 
counted for, that the children did not even know of the 
existence of part of it till after two of them had died. 

In addition to these disturbances, he fell so passion- 
ately in love that his mind lost its vigor. To the lover of 
Keats the saddest thing about his life is, not that it was 
so short, but that love should have so unmanned him. 
Even if he had been well, it would have been difficult for 
him to wait and work till he could marry. His passioii 
only hastened the end. He died at Rome in 1821, and 
was buried in the little Protestant cemetery by the pyra- 
mid of Cestius. 



KEATS XXXVll 

Keats has been called an Elizabethan because he so 
delighted in the physical beauty of outward nature ; but 
his feeling was a sense of luxury in the voluptuousness 
and exuberance of nature, which is far from the active, 
keen enjoyment of the Elizabethans. Indeed, his early 
poems show so much sensuous weakness, that there is 
small wonder his work was not well received. " Endy- 
mion,'' his second volume, called forth a brutal review 
from the Quarterly ^ which was long popularly supposed 
to have caused his death; and another only less harsh, 
from Blackwood, 

In reality Keats was far too manly to be seriously in- 
jured by the Quarterly. He acknowledged that " Endy- 
mion '^ was but the sloughing off of youthful feelings. 
He knew that he must get rid of these ideas in order to 
grow into something stronger. In the last three years of 
his life he gained that power to prune which he lacked in 
" Endymion." What he wrote showed reserve force as 
well as great beauty of imagery. 

He did not write of the practical every-day matters 
which appealed to Wordsworth, nor did unfathomable 
intellectual beauty attract him as it did Shelley. His 
interest lay not in life around him, nor in things beyond 
him, but in classic legends, — stories which had already 
received a halo from past literatures. 

In another direction, also, Keats was unlike the others. 
His theory was that a poet should have no personality 
of his own, but should absorb the moods of everyone 
around him ; should give himself up wholly to influences 
outside of himself, because only thus can he feel the 
beauty and the truth of the world. This was very dif- 
ferent from the aim of Wordsworth to put himself into 



xxxviii INTRODUCTION 

tlie riglit mood, and then receive what nature had to tell, 
sinkhig deeper into contemplation in himself in order to 
interpret aright; or from the eager curiosity of Shelley 
consciously lifting the veil which covers the secrets of 
nature. 

A third point of variance lay in his attitude toward his 
calling. Wordsworth wrote because he had something to 
teach; Shelley felt that the only way for him to lighten 
the burden of the w^orld was by using his poetic gift; 
both wanted to help humanity. Keats adopted poetry 
because it was life to himself. He could not exist with- 
out it. The pleasure or profit of the w^orld was of little 
importance to him, if he had once satisfied his nature by 
creating something beautiful. 

Doubtless, had he lived, other motives would have de- 
veloped in him. He began toward the end to appreciate 
the power for good which he might wield, and wrote of 
studies to be undertaken in order to fit himself for the 
mission of teaching mankind. That side of his character, 
however, had not time to mature. He died at the age of 
twenty-five, leaving behind him, besides his crude, early 
w^ork, a few odes and poems which have never been sur- 
passed for delicacy of touch and richness of imagery, and 
the mighty fragment of ^' Hyperion,'' begun on so lofty a 
scale that it could no more have been finished than Cole- 
ridge's " Christabel." The promise that the future 
would show wider sympathies with no less perfection of 
form was never fulfilled. 



Of all the tragedies in the lives of the poets of Words- 
worth's era, that of Byron seems both the most and the 



BYRON xxxix 

least pathetic ; most pathetic because in his life of thirty- 
six years he had less real love and happiness than even the 
men who died younger ; least so, because his genius seems 
to have been not so much in need of happiness to stimu- 
late it to action. The best poetry of AVordsworth and 
Coleridge and Shelley and, to a certain extent, of Keats, 
was all written under the spell of domestic love; Byron 
wrote his best after he had been driven with reviling from 
England, when home-life was forever closed upon him, 
when he knew that his daughter was not even allow^ed to 
see his portrait. But the old Berserker blood flowed in 
his veins; perhaps he was more truly happy when fight- 
ing the world than when at peace with it. 

His family had both good and evil elements in it. It 
was very old — he could trace it back to before the Con- 
quest — and he was very proud of it ; as for his parents — 
his father was a scamp Avho ran through the fortunes of 
two wives and deserted them; his mother was a vixen. 
For himself — a defect in the shape of one foot was the 
cause of much irritable sensitiveness, and he was as 
effectually spoiled, by the alternate petting and violence 
of his mother, as it was possible for a boy to be. All the 
good influences of Harrow and of Cambridge were not 
enough to tame a creature so erratic by inheritance and 
early treatment. 

When he left the University and had taken his seat in 
the House of Lords, he travelled for two years through 
Spain, Greece, and Turkey, returning with the first two 
cantos of " Childe Harold " in his pocket. For the next 
four years he was the darling of London society. 
" Childe Harold," and the romantic tales which followed 
it, just suited the public taste; he had all the admiration 



Xl INTRODUCTION 

liis haughty soul demanded; he was a peer, the descend- 
ant of peers, and he was a poet. 

During this time in London, he was advised to marry 
and settle down ; and, having had his fling in the world, 
probably, also, hoping to retrieve his fortune, he pro- 
posed to Miss Milbank. Unfortunately he was accepted. 
He did not pretend to be deeply in love ; perhaps the only 
real passion of his life was his youthful attachment to 
Mary Chaworth, the daughter of a neighbor and heredi- 
tary enemy. At all events her shadow rose before him at 
the altar. He seemed, however, to live happily enough 
with his wife for a year, and it was she who forced the 
separation between them. Soon after the birth of their 
daughter, she Avent home on a visit and from there in- 
formed him that she did not intend to return. 

The reasons for her action may never be exactly 
known. Undoubtedly, Byron was of uneven temper, 
and had been disappointed in not coming into immediate 
possession of his wife's property. Perhaps Lady Byron 
was jealous. Be that as it may, the whole world rose 
against the man who during four years had been its idol. 
"No invented story was too atrocious to be believed. His 
friends considered his very life in danger; he himself 
was anxious to leave a country where he was so detested, 
and a mode of life the hollowness of which had begun to 
tire him. 

He spent the next seven years chiefly in Italy, at times 
leading a life unworthy of his better self, but profiting by 
the friendship of Shelley, and always displaying a keen 
interest in politics both at home and abroad. He even 
aided the movement toward liberty which swept over 
Italy in 1820-1821, although he saw clearly that the time 



BYRON xli 

for Italian unity had not yet come. When the Greeks 
broke out into rebellion, he was asked to see what his 
presence and negotiations might do. He went, but lived 
only long enough to win the confidence and affection of 
all parties by his diplomatic skill. He died of malarial 
fever, at Missolonghi, in 1824. 

Pre-eminent among other poets of his time, Byron is 
the poet of the Revolution. The inherent conservatism 
of Wordsworth and Coleridge asserted itself soon after 
their first youthful outbreaks; they were frightened by 
the excesses of France into adherence to England, the 
product of evolution rather than of revolution. By the 
time Byron was old enough to understand something of 
politics, the reaction against Napoleon was at its height; 
on the other hand, the worst details of the years 1792- 
1794 had sunk Into the background, so that Byron felt 
the grandeur of the ideal for which the French had 
striven, without Its sickening horrors. Moreover, he was 
a hero-worshipper. N^apoleon, the man of achievement, 
fired his soul. He burned with the zeal of self-assertion. 
He gloried in the joy of Individual freedom. 

This characteristic was not wholly the effect of the 
age In which he lived ; it was the result of his strong per- 
sonality. He was a man of exaggerated emotions. He 
judged everything In life as it affected himself. Every 
scene or Incident was colored to his Imagination by his 
own feelings, which were peculiarly vivid. 

Another and less happy trait was a lack of reserve. 
The frankness which helped to ruin his own life, how- 
ever, was of value to succeeding poets. He created a new 
style of poetry, which scattered broadcast a most Inti- 
mate knowledge of his own personality; and, whatever. 



xlii INTRODUCTION 

its accompanying faults, the sincerity witli which he 
struck this new note was true enough to make his name 
honored. Thougli he carried self-revelation to the point 
of weakness, his fearless expression of individuality was 
as important an element in the new era of poetry as 
Wordsworth's return to nature. 

The force of Byron's sentiment and the boldness with 
which he revealed his personality captured the heart of 
society; but the rashness, the lack of self-control, the 
theatrical display of emotion which he exhibited in his 
earlier work have caused an eclipse of his popularity dur- 
ing the last forty years. Englishmen are only now begin- 
ning to appreciate his inherent strength, which foreigners 
perceived from the first;, but even without an under- 
standing of his merits, English poetry has shown the 
effect of his influence. 

Another manifestation of the independence of Byi'on's 
nature lay in his strong historic sense. England had, it 
is true, a reverence for her own past, though little knowl- 
edge of the world's history; but men of the Eevolu- 
tionary period had lived so entirely in the present, af- 
fairs of the moment were so overwhelmingly pressing, 
that continentals and English alike had lost all interest 
in the great names of former times. It is the distinguish- 
ing mark of Byron that, hand in hand with his capacity 
for hero-worship went a veneration for past achievement 
and forgotten splendors. Any evidences of man's ac- 
tivities, any battle-field or ruined castle, roused his emo- 
tional nature to reflection, and every place he visited in 
his varied travels gave rise to a picture or a monologue, 
which, in course of time, found its way into his poetry. 

His method forbade any unity in most of his poems, 



BYRON xliii 

but it wakened in Englishmen a feeling for history, 
hitherto quite unknown. There is hardly a spot in Eu- 
rope, ordinarily visited by travellers, which has not ac- 
quired an historic as well as a literary association because 
of his writing. 

These two elements — the appeal to personal feeling 
and a sense of the historic past — are Byron's contribution 
to English poetry. Besides these qualities, his vivid de- 
scription, his thrilling narrative, his caustic wit, the 
cleverness of his vocabulary, though they had their coun- 
terparts in earlier poetry, will be sufficient to preserve his 
fame, notwithstanding the roughness of his metre, the 
lack of harmony in his verse, the crudeness of many of his 
ideas. These blemishes are the marks of a strong but un- 
trained nature, and are atoned for by the vigor and ear- 
nestness with which he wrote. 



With the death of Byron, the poetic impulse for a time 
subsided; Tennyson and Browning came a generation 
later. Nevertheless, a lasting revolution had been ef- 
fected and a new era begun. With all its varied growth, 
Xineteenth Century poetry still retains something of the 
spirit with which the century opened, and traces its de- 
velopment to the work of the five men represented in this 
volume. 



xliv 



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BIBLIOGRAPHY. 



NOTB.— So far as feasible, the present publishers and the earliest date o* publication 
are indicated. 

WILLIAM WOEDSWOETH. 



Editions Recommended. 

Poems of Wordsworth. Selection by Matthew Arnold. [Golden 
Treasury Series, Macmillan.] 

The Complete Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, with Introduc- 
tion by John Morley. One volume. [Macmillan.] 1888. 

The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth. Edited by William 
Knight. Eight volumes. Additional volumes with life and prose 
works. [Paterson.] 1882-86. (Revised edition published by 
Macmillan, 1897.) 

Biographical. 

F. W. H. Myers, Wordsworth. [Harper's English Men of Letters 
Series.] 1880. 

William Minto, Wordsworth. [Encyclopaedia Britannica, Ninth Edi- 
tion.] 1888. 

William Knight, Life. Vols. IX, X, XI, of Knight's edition of Words- 
worth's Works. [Paterson.] 1889. 

Critical. 

R. H. Hutton, Essays, Theological and Literary, Vol. II. [Macmil- 
lan.] 1871. 

S. A. Brooke, Theology in the English Poets. [H. S. King.] 1874. 

Leslie Stephen, Hours in a Library, Third Series : Wordsworth's 
Ethics. [Smith & Elder.] 1879. 

E. P. Whipple, Essays and Reviews, Vol. I. [Houghton, Mifflin & 
Co.] 1848. 



Ivi BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Matthew Arnold, Essays in Criticism, Second Series. [Macmillan.] 
1879. (The same essay is the Introduction to Arnold's Selec- 
tions from Wordsworth.) 

William Knight, editor, Wordsworthiana. [Macmillan.] 1889. 

Walter Pater, Appreciations. [Macmillan.] 1874. 

Walter Bagehot, Literary Studies, Vol. II : Wordsworth, Tennyson, 
and Browning. [Longmans.] 1879. (A cheap edition of Bage- 
hot's works has been published by the Hartford Insurance Co.) 

Aubrey de Vere, Essays chiefly on Poetry, Vol. I. [Macmillan.] 
1887. 

J. C. Shairp, 1. Studies in Poetry and Philosophy: AVordsworth, the 
Man and the Poet. [Douglas.] 1868. (Largely biographical. ) 
2. Poetic Interpretation of Nature. [Douglas.] 1874. 

S. T. Coleridge, Biographia Literaria, Chaps. IV, XIV, XVII, 
XVIII, XIX, XXII. [Bolm.] 1817. 

J. R. Lowell, Among My Books, Vol. II. [Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 
1876. (Largely a discussion of Wordsworth's defects as a poet.) 

Edmond Scherer, Essays in English Literature. 
[Scribner.] 1891. (Foreigner's view.) 



BIBLIOGRAPHY Ivii 



COLEKIDGE. 

Editions Recommended. 

The Golden Book of Coleridge, edited with an introduction by Stop- 
ford A. Brooke. [J. M. Dent.] 1895. 

The Poetical Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, edited with a bio- 
graphical introduction by James Dykes Campbell. One volume, 
[Macmillan.] 1893. 

The Poetical AVorks of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Edited with intro- 
duction and notes by T. Ashe. Two volumes. [George Bell & 
Sons. Aldine Edition of the British Poets.] 

Biographical. 

H. D. Traill, Coleridge. [Harper's English Men of Letters Series.] 

1884. 
E. H. Coleridge, editor, Letters of S. T. Coleridge. [Heinemann.] 

1895. 
L. Stephen, Coleridge. [Dictionary of National Biography.] 
Charles Lamb, 1. Letters. Edited by Alfred Ainger. Two volumes 

[Macmillan.] 1888. 

2. Essays of Elia : Christ's Hospital five and thirty 

years ago. [Armstrong.] 1823-33. 

Critical. 

E. P. Whipple, Essays and Reviews, Vol. I : Coleridge as a Poet and 

Critic. [Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 1848. 
S. A. Brooke, Theology in the English Poets. [Henry S. King.] 1874. 
A. C. Swinburne, Essays and Studies. [Chatto & Windus.] 1888. 

(Praise of Coleridge's aesthetic qualities.) 
Edward Dowden, New Studies in Literature. [Kegan Paul, Trench & 

Co.] 1895. (Points out the perfections of Coleridge's poetry and 

the frailties of his nature.) 
Walter Pater, Appreciations. [Macmillan.] 1865-80. (Emphasizes 

the intellectual passion for absolute truth as shown in Coleridge's 

poetry.) 
J. C. Shairp, Studies in Poetry and Philosophy : Coleridge, the Man 

and the Poet. [Douglas.] 1868. (Discussion of Coleridge's in- 
tellectual belief 8.) 



BIBLIOGRAPHY lix 

SHELLEY. 

Editions Recommended. 

Poems from Shelley. Selected and arranged by Stopford A. Brooke, 

[Golden Treasury Series, Macmillan J 
The Poetical Works of Percy Bysslie Shelley. Edited by Edward 

Dowden. One volume. [Macmillan.] 1890. (Notes, Life.) 
The Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. Edited by George E. 

Woodberry. Four volumes. [Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 1892. 

Biographical. 

J. A. Symonds, Shelley. [English Men of Letters Series.] 1879. 
William Sharp, Life. [Great Writers Series, W. Scott.] 1887. 
G. B. Smith, Shelley : A Critical Biography. [Douglas.] 1877. 
Edward Dowden, Life of Shelley. Two volumes. [Kegan Paul, 
Trench & Co.] 1886. 

Critical. 

R. H. Hutton, Essays, Theological and Literary, Vol. II : Shelley 
and his Writings. [Macmillan.] Third edition, 1888. (Discus- 
sion of Shelley's mysticism.) 

E. P. Whipple, Essays and Reviews, Vol. I : Shelley. [Houghton, 
Mifflin & Co.] 1848. 

Walter Bagehot, Literary Studies, Vol. I. [Longmans,] 1879. 

Edward Dowden, Transcripts and Studies : Last Words on Shelley. 
[Kegan Paul, Trench & Co.] 1888. 

J. C. Shairp, Aspects of Poetry : Shelley as a Lyric Poet. [Houghton, 
Mifflin & Co.] 1882. 

A, C. Swinburne, Essays and Studies : Notes on the Text of Shelley. 
[Chatto & Windus.] 1876. 

Matthew Arnold, Essays in Criticism, Second Series. [Macmillan.] 
1879. (Criticism of Dowden's Life, Shelley's character as a man.) 

Leslie Stephen, Hours in a Library, Third Series. [Smith & Elder,] 
1879. 

George E, Woodberry, Studies in Letters and Life : Remarks on 
Shelley, [Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 1890. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY Ixi 



KEATS. 



Editions Recommended. 

The Poetical Works of Keats, with notes by Francis T. Palgrave. 
[Golden Treasury Series.] (Containing, in convenient form, 
most of the important poems.) 

Poetical Works of John Keats. Editor, William T. Arnold. [Kegan 
Paul, Trench & Co.] 1884-88. 

The Poetical Works of John Keats. H. B. Forman. [Reeves & Tur- 
ner.] Third edition, 1889. (Full notes and all the poems.) 

Biographical. 

Sidney Colvin, Keats. [English Men of Letters Series.] 1887. 

W. M. Rossetti, Life of Keats. [Great Writers Series, Scott.] 1887. 

Sidney Colvin, Keats. [Dictionary of National Biography,] 

A. C. Swinburne, Keats, [Encyclopaedia Britannica, Ninth Edition.] 

H. Buxton Forman, editor. The Letters of John Keats. [Reeves & 

Turner.] 1895. 
Sidney Colvin, editor. Letters of John Keats. [Macmillan.] 1891. 

Critical. 

Matthew Arnold, Essays in Criticism, Second Series. [Macmillan,] 

1879. 
J R, Lowell, Among My Books, Vol. II. [Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 

1876. (Some statements shown to be false in the light of later 

investigations.) 
A. C. Swinburne, Miscellanies. [Chatto & Windus.] 1886. 
G. E. Woodberry, Studies in Letters and Life : On the Promise of 

Keats. [Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 1890. 
W. H. Hudson, Studies in Interpretation : Keats. [Putnam.] 1896. 

(Excellent presentation of Keats's attitude toward modern thought.) 
David Masson, Wordsworth, Shelley, and Keats. [Macmillan.] 1856. 

(Purely intellectual treatment.) 
Quarterly Review, April, 1818. Endymion : A Poetic Romance. (A 

savage criticism, supposed at one time to have caused the death of 

Keats.) 



BIBLIOGRAPHY Ixiii 



BYRON. 



Editions Recommended. 

Childe Harold, edited with notes, by H. F. Tozer. [Clarendon Press 

Series.] 
The Poetical Works of Lord Byron. One volume. [Murray.] 1873. 

(Notes by Scott, Moore, Lockhart, etc.) 
Lord Byron's Works in Prose and Poetry. Edited by his grandson, 

the Earl of Lovelace. [Murray.] 1897. In preparation. 



Biographical. 

Roden Noel, Byron. [Great Writers Series.] 1890. 
John Nichol, Byron. [English Men of Letters Series.] 1890. 
William Minto, Byron. [Encyclopaedia Britannica, Ninth Edition.] 
Leslie Stephen, Byron. [Dictionary of National Biography.] 
The Works of Lord Byron. Edited by W. E. Henley. Volume I., 
Letters, 1804-1813. [Heinemann.] 1897. (To contain (1) Let- 
ters; (2) Journals and Memoranda; (3) Miscellanies.) 

Critical. 

Matthew Arnold, Essays in Criticism, Second Series. [Macmillan.] 

1879. 
E. P. Whipple, Essays and Reviews, Vol. I. [Houghton, Mifflin & 

Co.] 1848. 
John Morley, Critical Miscellanies, Vol. I. [Macmillan.] 1877. 
H. A. Taine, History of English Literature, Vol. IV. [Henry Holt & 

Co.] 1871. 
A. C. Swinburne, 1. Essays and Studies. [Chatto & Windus.] 1876. 
2. Miscellanies : Wordsworth and Byron. [Chatto 

& Windus.] 1886. (Violent attack upon Byron as a poet.) 
Edinburgh Review, March, 1808. Review by Lord Brougham of 

Hours of Idleness. (Occasion of Byron's English Bards and 

Scotch Reviewers.) 



BIBLIOGRAPHY Ixv 



BOOKS OF GENEEAL EEFEEENCE. 

Mrs. M. O. Oliphant, Literary History of England in the End of the 
Eighteenth and Beginning of the Nineteenth Century. Three 
volumes. [Macmillan.] 1882. (Easy reading.) 

Edward Dowden, 1. Studies in Literature, 1789-1877. [Kegan Paul, 
Trench & Co.] Fifth edition, 1889. 

2. The French Revolution and English Literature. 
[Scribner.] 1897. 

T. Hall Caine, Cobwebs of Criticism. [Stock.] 1883. (A review of 
the first reviewers of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, 
Byron.) 

G. Saintsbury, A History of Nineteenth Century Literature. [Mac- 
millan.] 1896. 

Thomas De Quincey, Literary Reminiscences and Biographical Essays, 
1835-40. [Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] (Especially for Wordsworth 
and Coleridge.) 

Charles Lamb, Letters. Edited by Alfred Ainger. [Macmillan.] 
1888. (For Coleridge and Wordsworth.) 

William Hazlitt, 1. The Spirit of the Age. [Bohn.] 

2. Lectures on the English Poets. [Bohn.] 1818. 

Leigh Hunt, Autobiography. Two volumes. [Harper.] 1850. 

The Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews and Blackwood's Magazine. 
(For contemporary criticism on the various poets. Most of the 
important essays may be found in Early Reviews of Great Writers, 
ed. Stevenson. Camelot Series, Scott.) 

Thomas Carlyle, Reminiscences. Edited by C. E. Norton. [Mac- 
millan.] 




After Bosall (1831). 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 






'^^ f" 




0^ 








\$^#1^ 




g i 






I— ( OJ 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH^ 



LINES 

COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON RE- 
VISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR, 
JULY 13, 1798. 

Five years have past; five summers, with the length 

Of five long winters! and again I hear 

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 

With a soft inland murmur. — Once again 

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 

That on a wild secluded scene impress 

Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect 

The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 

The day is come when I again repose 

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view lo 

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts. 

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, 

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 

'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 

These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 

Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, 

Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke 

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! 



1 Original and early editions as well as late standard texts have been consulted for 
these selections, and in general, even at the risk of inconsistency, the early spelling, 
capitals, and punctuation have been retained. Such details help to re-create the 
atmosphere of the period to which they belong. 

1 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

With some uncertain notice, as might seem 

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20 

Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 

The Hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms. 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them. 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; 
And passing even into mj purer mind. 
With tranquil restoration: — feelings too 30 

Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps. 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life. 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust. 
To them I may have owed another gift, 
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood. 
In which the burthen of the mystery. 
In which the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world, 40 

Is lightened: — that serene and blessed mood. 
In which the affections gently lead us on, — 
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
And even the motion of our human blood 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul: 
AVhile with an eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 
We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft — eo 

In darkness and amid the many shapes 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 3 

Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 

sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods, 
How often has my spirit turned to thee! 

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought. 
With many recognitions dim and faint. 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, eo 

The picture of the mind revives again: 
While here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope. 
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 

1 came among these hills; when like a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 

Wherever nature led: more like a man to 

Flying from something that he dreads, than one 

Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then 

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days. 

And their glad animal movements all gone by) 

To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 

What then I was. The sounding cataract 

Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock. 

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood. 

Their colours and their forms, were then to me 

An appetite; a feeling and a love, so 

That had no need of a remoter charm. 

By thought supplied, nor any interest 

Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past. 

And all its aching joys are now no more, 

And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 

Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, 

Abundant recompence. For I have learned 

To look on nature, not as in the hour 

Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes 90 

The still, sad music of humanity. 

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 

A presence that disturbs me with the joy 

Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime 

Of something far more deeply interfused. 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. 

And the round ocean and the living air. 

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; 

A motion and a spirit, that impels loo 

All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 

A lover of the meadows and the woods. 

And mountains; and of all that we behold 

From this green earth; of all the mighty world 

Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create. 

And what perceive; well pleased to recognise 

In nature and the language of the sense, 

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. 

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul no 

Of all my moral being. 

Nor perchance. 
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay: 
For thou art with me here upon the banks 
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend, 
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy w41d eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once, * wo 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 5 

My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, 

Knowing that Nature never did betray 

The heart that loved her; His her privilege, 

Through all the years of this our life, to lead 

From joy to joy: for she can so inform 

The mind that is within us, so impress 

With quietness and beauty, and so feed 

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 

Eash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men. 

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 130 

The dreary intercourse of daily life. 

Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 

Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; 

And let the misty mountain-winds be free 

To blow against thee: and in after years. 

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 

Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind 

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, wo 

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 

For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then. 

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 

And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance — 

If I should be where I no more can hear 

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 

Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 

That on the banks of this delightful stream iso 

We stood together; and that I, so long 

A worshipper of Nature, hither came 

Unwearied in that service: rather say 

With warmer love — oh ! with far deeper zeal 

Of holier love. Nor will thou then forget, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

That after many wanderings, many years 
Of absence, these steep woods and. lofty cliffs, 
x4nd this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake I 



EXPOSTULATION AND EEPLY. 

" Why, William, on that old grey stone, 
Thus for the length of half a day. 
Why, William, sit you thus alone. 
And dream your time away? 

" Where are your books? — that light bequeathed 
To Beings else forlorn and blind! 
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed 
From dead men to their kind. 

" You look round on your Mother Earth, 

As if she for no purpose bore you; lo 

As if you were her first-born birth, 

And none had lived before you! " 

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, 
When life was sweet, I knew not why, 
To me my good friend Matthew spake. 
And thus I made reply. 

" The eye — it cannot choose but see; 
We cannot bid the ear be still; 
Our bodies feel, where'er they be, 
Against or with our will. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

" Xor less I deem that there are Powers 
Which of themselves our minds impress; 
That we can feed this mind of ours 
In a wise passiveness. 

•• Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
Of things for ever speaking. 
That nothing of itself will come, 
But we must still be seeking? 

" — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 

Conversing as I may, 

I sit upon this old grey stone. 

And dream my time away." 



30 



Spring, 1798.] 



THE TABLES TURNED. 

AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; 
Or surely you'll grow double: 
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; 
Wliy all this toil and trouble ? 

The sun, above the mountain's head, 

A freshening lustre mellow 

Through all the long green fields has spread, 

His first sweet evening yellow. 

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: 

Come, hear the woodland linnet, ^® 

How sweet his music! on my life, 

There's more of wisdom in it. 



1798.] 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! 
He, too, is no mean preacher: 
Come forth into the light of things, 
Let Nature be your teacher. 

She has a world of ready wealth, 

Our minds and hearts to bless — 

Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health. 

Truth breathed by cheerfulness. ^^ 

One impulse from a vernal wood 
May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good. 
Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 
Our meddling intellect 
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: — 
We murder to dissect. 

Enough of Science and of Art; 

Close up those barren leaves; '° 

Come forth, and bring with you a heart 

That watches and receives. 



^'SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN 
WAYS." 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A Maid whom there were none to praise 

And very few to love: 



199.] 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh, 

The difference to me! 



I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN. 

I travelled among unknown men, 

In lands beyond the sea; 
Nor, England! did I know till then 

What love I bore to thee. 

'Tis past, that melancholy dream! 

Nor will I quit thy shore 
A second time; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more. 

Among thy mountains did I feel 

The joy of my desire; 
And she I cherished turned her wheel 

Beside an English fire. 

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed 

The bowers where Lucy played; 
And thine too is the last green field 

That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 



1799.] 



10 SELECTIONS FHOM WORDSWORTH 



"THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND 
SHOWER/' 

Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 
On earth was never sown; 
This Child I to myself will take; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 
A Lady of my own. 

" Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse: and with me 

The Girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, lo 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

" She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 
Or up the mountain springs; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 
Of mute insensate things. 

" The floating clouds their state shall lend 

To her; for her the willow bend; 20 

Nor shall she fail to see 

Even in the motions of the Storm 

Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 11 

" The stars of midnight shall be dear 

To her; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 3« 

" And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height, 
Her virgin bosom swell; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and I together live 
Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 

How soon my Lucy's race was run! 

She died, and left to me 

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; 40 

The memory of what has been. 

And never more will be. 



Hartz Forest, 1799.] 



COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, 
SEPTEMBER 3, 1802. 

[Written on the roof of a coach, on my way to France. — "W. W.] 

Earth has not any thing to show more fair: 
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty: 
This City now doth, like a garment, wear 
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 



12 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

Open unto the fields, and to the sky; 

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 

Never did sun more beautifully steep, 

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; 

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! 

The river glideth at his own sweet will: 

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; 

And all that mighty heart is lying still! 



"IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND 
FREE." 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 

The holy time is quiet as a Nun 

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun 

Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 

The gentleness of heaven is .on the Sea: 

Listen! the mighty Being is awake, 

And doth with his eternal motion make 

A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, 

If thou appear'st untouched by solemn thought, 

Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; 

And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 

God being with thee when we know it not. 

August, 1802.] 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 13 



ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN 
KEPUBLIC. 

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee; 
And was the safeguard of the west: the worth 
Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 
She was a maiden City, bright and free; 
No guile seduced, no force could violate; 
And, when she took unto herself a Mate, 
She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
And what if she had seen those glories fade. 
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay; 
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
When her long life hath reached its final day: 
Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade 
Of that which once was great, is pass'd away. 

August, 1802.] 



SEPTEMBER, 1802. NEAR DOVER. 

Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood; 

And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear, 

The coast of France — ^the coast of France how near! 

Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood. 

I shrunk; for verily the barrier flood 

Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, 

A span of waters; yet what power is there! 

What mightiness for evil and for good! 

Even so doth God protect us if we be 

Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll, 



14 SELECTIONS PROM WORDSWORTH 

Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity; 
Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree 
Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul 
Only, the Nations shall be great and free. 



LONDON, 1802. 

Milton! ^ thou should'st be living at this hour: 
England hath need of thee: she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen. 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; 
Oh! raise us up, return to us again; 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: 
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. 
So didst thou travel on life's common way. 
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 



"GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN x\MONG US; HANDS 
THAT PENNED." 

Great men have been among us; hands that penned 
And tongues that uttered wisdom — better none:*" 
The later Sidney, Mar^^el, Harrington, 
Young Yane, and others who called Milton friend. 
These moralists could act and comprehend: 

' Wordsworth imputed to Milton a union of tenderness and ima^nation far above 
other poets, and felt a greater kinship with him than with others. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 15 

They knew how genuine glory was put on; 

Taught us how rightfully a nation shone 

In splendour: what strength was, that would not bend 

But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange. 

Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. 

Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change! 

No single volume paramount, no code. 

No master spirit, no determined road; 

But equally a want of books and men! 

September, 1802.] 



'^T IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF THAT THE 
FLOOD.'' 

It is not to be thought of that the Flood 
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea 
Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity 
Hath flowed, " with pomp of waters, unwithstood," 
Roused though it be full often to a mood 
Which spurns the check of salutary bands, 
That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands 
Should perish; and to evil and to good 
Be lost forever. In our halls is hung 
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old: 
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue 
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold 
Which Milton held. — In everything we are sprung 
Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 

1802.] 



16 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 



STEPPING WESTWAED. 

[While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking b}- the side of Loch 
Ketterine, one fine evening after sunset, in our road to a Hut where, 
in the course of our Tour, we had been hospitably entertained some 
weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary re- 
gion, two well-dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of 
greeting, '^ What, you are stepping westward ? "J 

" What, you are stepping westward'^ " — " Yea.'' 
— 'Twoiild be a wildish destiny^ 
If we, who thus together roam 
In a strange Land, and far from home, 
Were in this place the guests of Chance: 
Yet who wonld stop, or fear to advance, 
Thongh home or shelter he had none, 
With snch a sky to lead him on? 

The dewy ground was dark and cold; 

Behind, all gloomy to behold; lo 

And stepping westward seemed to be 

A kind of heavenly destiny: 

I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound 

Of something without place or bound; 

And seemed to give me spiritual right 

To travel through that region bright. 

The voice was soft, and she who spake 

Was walking by her native lake: 

The salutation had to me 

The very sound of courtesy: 20 

Its power was felt; and while my eye 

Was fixed upon the glowing Sky, 



1803.] 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 17 

The echo of the voice enwrought 
A human sweetness with the thought 
Of travelling through the world that lay 
Before me in my endless way. 



THE SOLITARY REAPER. 

Behold her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
Reaping and singing by herself; 
Stop here, or gently pass! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain. 
And sings a melancholy strain; 
listen! for the Vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. ^ 

No Nightingale did ever chaunt 

More welcome notes to weary bands lo 

Of travellers in some shady haunt. 

Among Arabian sands: 

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 

Breaking the silence of the seas 

Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings ? — 

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 

For old, unhappy, far-off things, 

And battles long ago: 20 

1 Wordsworth's ear was pecxiliarly alive to the sounds of nature. In this instance 
the spirit of the place expresses itself in the music. 
2 



18 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

Or is it some more humble lay, 
Familiar matter of to-day ? 
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
That has been, and may be again? 

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending; 
I saw her singing at her work. 
And o'er the sickle bending; — 
I listened, motionless and still; 
And, as I mounted up the hill. 
The music in my heart I bore. 
Long after it was heard no more. 

1803.] 



YARROW UNVISITED. 

[See the Tarious Poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of 
the Yarrow ; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, beginning 
"Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, 
~ Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow ! "J 

From Stirling castle we had seen 
The mazy Forth unravelled; 
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 
And with the Tweed had travelled; 
And when we came to Clovenf ord. 
Then said my " winsome Marroio/' 
" Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside. 
And see the Braes of Yarrow." 



" Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 
Who have been buying, selling. 
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own; 
Each maiden to her dwelling! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 19 

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow! 
But we will downward with the Tweed, 
Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 



^' There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 

Both lying right before us; 

And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed 



20 



The lintwhites sing in chorus; 
There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
Made blithe with plough and harrow: 
Why throw away a needful day 
To go in search of Yarrow ? 

" What's Yarrow but a river bare. 

That glides the dark hills under? 

There are a thousand such elsewhere 

As worthy of your wonder." 

— Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn; 

My True-love sighed for sorrow; so 

And looked me in the face, to think 

I thus could speak of Yarrow! 

" Oh! green," said I, " are Yarrow's holms. 

And sweet is Yarrow flowing! 

Fair hangs the apple f rae the rock. 

But we will leave it growing. 

O'er hilly path and open Strath, 

We'll wander Scotland thorough; 

But, though so near, we will not turn 

Into the dale of Yarrow. 40 

" Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; 



20 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow! ' 
We will not see them; will not go. 
To-day, nor yet to-morrow; 
Enough if in our hearts we know 
There's such a place as Yarrow. 

" Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! ^ 

It must, or we shall rue it: 50 

We have a vision of our own; 

Ah! wdiy should we undo it? 

The treasured dreams of times long past, 

We'll keep them, winsome Marrow! 

For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 

'Twill be another Yarrow! 

" If Care with freezing years should come. 

And wandering seem but folly, — 

Should we be loth to stir from home. 

And yet be melancholy; 60 

Should life be dull, and spirits low, 

'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, 

That earth has something yet to show, 

The bonny holms of Yarrow! " 

1803.] 



1 In the reserve of his nature, Wordsworth always held himself back from a pleas- 
ure, in order to enjoy it in moderation. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 21 



" ENGLAND ! THE TIME IS COME WHEN THOU 
SHOULD'ST WEAN." 

Eu gland! Tlie time is come when thou should'st wean 
■ Thy heart from its emasculating food; 
The truth should now be better understood; 
Old things have been unsettled; we have seen 
Fair seed-time, better harvest might have been 
But for thy trespasses; and, at this day. 
If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa, 
Aught good were destined, thou would'st step between. 
England! all nations in this charge agree: 
But worse, more ignorant in love and hate. 
Far — far more abject, is thine Enemy: 
Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight 
Of thy offences be a heavy weight: 
Oh grief that Earth's best hopes rest all with Thee! 

1803.7 



THERE IS A BONDAGE WOESE, FAR WORSE, 
TO BEAR." 

There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear 
Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, and wall. 
Pent in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall: 
'Tis his who walks about in the open air. 
One of a Nation who, henceforth, must wear 
Their fetters in their souls. For who could be, 
Who, even the best, in such condition, free 
From self-reproach, reproach that he must share 



22 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

With Human-nature? Never be it ours 
To see the sun how brightly it will shine, 
And know that noble feelings, manly powers, 
Instead of gathering strength, must droop and pine; 
And earth with all her pleasant fruits and flowers 
Fade, and participate in man's decline. 



1803.] 



TO THE CUCKOO. 

blithe New-comer! I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice. 

Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice? 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear, 
From hill to hill it seems to pass. 
At once far off, and near. 

Though babbling only to the Vale 
Of sunshine and of flowers. 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! 

Even yet thou art to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery; 

The same whom in my school-boy days 

1 listened to; that Cry 

Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 23 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
Still longed for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet; 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

blessed Bird! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, fairy place. 
That is fit home for Thee! 



1804.] 



" SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT." 

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The germ of this poem was four 
lines composed as a part of the verses on the Highland Girl. Though 
beginning in this way, it was written from my heart, as is sufficiently 
obvious. — W. W.] 

She was a Phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight; 

A lovely Apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament; 

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; 

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; 

A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. lo 



24 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woraan too! 

Her household motions light and free. 

And steps of virgin-liberty; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A Creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.- 20 

And now I see with eye serene 

The very pulse of the machine; ^ 

A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A traveller between life and death; 

The reason firm, the temperate will. 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 

A perfect Woman, nobly planned 

To warn, to comfort, and command; 

And yet a Spirit still, and bright 

With something of angelic light. so 

1804.] 



1 Machine : compare "The Waggoner," Canto IV., line 803. 

Forgive me, then ; for I had been 
On friendly terms with this Machine. 

The progress of mechanical industry in Britain since the beginning of the present 
centmy has given a more limited, and purely technical, meaning to the word, than it 
bore when Wordsworth used it in these two instances.— Wm. Knight, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 25 



THE DAFFODILS. 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 

And twinkle on the milky way. 

They stretched in never-ending line 

Along the margin of a bay: lO 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced; but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: 

A poet could not but be gay. 

In such a jocund company: 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought: 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 

In vacant or in pensive mood, 20 

They flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bliss of solitude;^ 

And then my heart with pleasure fills, 

And dances with the daffodils. 



1804.] 



^ These two lines were composed by Mrs. Wordsworth. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 



ODE TO DUTY. 

" Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantuni 
recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim." 

[This Ode is on the model of Gray's Ode to Adversity, which is copied 
from Horace's Ode to Fortune. — Wordsworth.] 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! 

Duty! if that name thou love 

Who art a light to guide, a rod 

To check the erring, and reprove; 

Thou, who art victory and law 

When empty terrors overawe; 

From vain temptations dost set free; 

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 

Be on them; who, in love and truth, lo 

Where no misgiving is, rely 

Upon the genial sense of youth: 

(ilad Hearts! Avithout reproach or blot; 

Who do thy work, and know it not: 

Oh ! if through confidence misplaced 

They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast. 

Serene will be our days and bright, 

And happy will our nature be, 

When love is an unerring light. 

And joy its own security. 20 

And they a blissful course may hold 

Even now, who, not unwisely bold. 

Live in the spirit of this creed; 

Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 27 

1, loving freedom, and untried; 

No sport of every random gust. 

Yet being to myself a guide, 

Too blindly have reposed my trust: 

And oft, when in my heart was heard 

Thy timely mandate, I deferred 30 

The task, in smoother walks to stray; 

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul. 

Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

I supplicate for thy control; 

But in the quietness of thought: 

Me this unchartered freedom tires; 

I feel the weight of chance-desires : 

My hopes no more must change their name, 

I long for a repose that ever is the same. 40 

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace; 
Nor know we any thing so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face : 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 
And fragrance in thy footing treads; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; 
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and 
strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power! 

I call thee: I myself commend 50 

Unto thy guidance from this hour; 

Oh, let my weakness have an end! 

Give unto me, made lowly wise, 

The spirit of self-sacrifice; 

The confidence of reason give; 

And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live! 

1805.] 



28 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 



CHAEACTEE OF THE HAPPY WAEEIOE.^ 

— Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he 

That every man in arms should wish to be ? 

— It is tlie generous Spirit, who, when brought 

Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 

Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought: 

Whose high endeavours are an inward light 

That makes the path before him always bright: 

Who, with a natural instinct to discern 

What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; 

Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, lo 

But makes his moral being his prime care; 

Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, 

And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! 

Turns his necessity to glorious gain; 

In face of these doth exercise a power 

Which is our human nature's highest dower; 

Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 

Of their bad influence, and their good receives: 

By objects, which might force the soul to abate 

Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; 20 

Is placable — because occasions rise 

So often that demand such sacrifice; 

More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, 

As tempted more; more able to endure. 

As more exposed to sufl^ering and distress; 

Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 

— 'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends 

Upon that law as on the best of friends; 



» Written after the death of Nelson, whose name, except for one supposed blot, 
Wordsworth would have wished to connect wth the poem ; some elements are 
borrowed from the character of Wordsworth's sailor brother, John, who had been 
drowned but a short time before. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 29 

Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 

To evil for a guard against worse ill, so 

And what in quality or act is best 

Doth seldom on a right foundation rest. 

He labours good on good to fix, and owes 

To virtue every triumph that he knows: 

— Who, if he rise to station of command, 

Rises by open means; and there will stand 

On honourable terms, or else retire. 

And in himself possess his own desire; 

Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 

Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; 40 

And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 

For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state; 

Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, 

Like showers of manna, if they come at all: 

Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, 

Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 

A constant influence, a peculiar grace; 

But who, if he be called upon to face 

Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 

Great issues, good or bad for human kind, so 

Is happy as a Lover; and attired 

With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; 

And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 

In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; 

Or if an unexpected call succeed. 

Come when it will, is equal to the need: 

— He who, though thus endued as with a sense 

And faculty for storm and turbulence. 

Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 

To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; eo 

Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, 

Are at his heart; and such fidelity 

It is his darling passion to approve; 



30 SELECTIONS FROxM WORDSWORTH 

More brave for this, that he hath much to love: — 

'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, 

Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 

Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 

Who, with a toward or untoward lot. 

Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not — 

Plays, in the many games of life> that one to 

Where what he most doth value must be won: 

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, 

Nor thought of tender happiness betray; 

Who, not content that former worth stand fast. 

Looks forward, persevering to the last. 

From well to better, daily self-surpast: 

Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth 

For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, 

Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame. 

And leave a dead unprofitable name — so 

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; 

And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 

His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: 

This is the happy Warrior; this is He 

That every "Man in arms should wish to be. 

1806.] 



"WITH HOW SAD STEPS, MOON, THOU 
CLIMB'ST THE SKY." 

With how sad steps, Moon, thou climb'st the sky. 
How silently, and with how wan a face! ^ 
Where art thou ? thou so often seen on high 
Eunnfng among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race! 
Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh 
Which they would stifle, move at such a pace! 

» From a sonnet of Sir Philip Sydney. No. XXXI. of " Astrophel and Stella." 



SELECTIONS PROM WORDSWORTH 31 

The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase, 
Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I 
The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be: 
And all the stars, fast as the clouds were riven, 
Should sally forth, to keep thee company, 
Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven; 
But, Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given, 
Queen both for beauty and for majesty. 

1806.] 



"THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US: LATE 
AND SOON." 

The world is too much with us: late and soon. 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: 
Little we see in Nature that is ours; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! 
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours. 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; 
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; 
It moves us not. — Great God! I'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

1806.] 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 



"A FLOCK OF SHEEP THAT LEISURELY 
PASS BY." 

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by. 
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas. 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; 
I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 
Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies 
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees; 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay. 
And could not win thee. Sleep! by any stealth: 
So do not let me wear to-night away : 
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ? 
Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! 
1806.] 



"WHERE LIES THE LAND TO WHICH YON 
SHIP MUST GO?" 

Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? 

Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day. 

Festively she puts forth in trim array; 

Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow? 

What boots the inquiry? — Neither friend nor foe 

She cares for; let her travel where she may. 

She finds familiar names, a beaten way 

Ever before her, and a wind to blow. 

Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark ? 

And, almost as it was when ships were rare. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 33 

(From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there 
Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark. 
Of the old Sea some reverential fear. 
Is with me at thy farewell, Joyous Bark. 



1806.] 



ODE. 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF 
EARLY CHILDHOOD. 

The Child is father of the Man ; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 

I. 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight. 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light. 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore; — 
Turn whereso'er I may. 
By night or day. 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

II. 

The Eainbow comes and goes. 
And lovely is the Rose; 
The Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare, 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth; 
But yet I know, where'er I go. 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 



34 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

III. 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 

And while the young lambs bound 20 

As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 

And I again am strong: 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng. 
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep. 
And all the earth is gay; 

Land and sea so 

Give themselves up to jollity, 

And with the heart of IMay 
Doth every Beast keep holiday; — 
Thou Child of Joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
Shepherd boy! 

IV. 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 
My heart is at your festival, 

My head hath its coronal, *o 

The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
Oh evil day! if I were sullen 
While the Earth herself is adorning. 

This sweet May-morning, 
And the Children are culling 

On every side. 
In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm. 
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm: — 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 35 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 5o 

— But there's a Tree, of many, one, 
A single Field which I have looked upon. 
Both of them speak of something that is gone: 

The Pansy at my feet 

Doth the same tale repeat: 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 

V. 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 60 

And Cometh from afar: 

Not in entire f orgetf ulness. 

And not in utter nakedness. 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home: 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy; to 

The Youth, who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

VI. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. 
And, even with something of a Mother's mind. 

And no unworthy aim, so 



36 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

The homely Nurse cloth all she can 
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 

Forget the glories he hath known. 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

YII. 

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 

A six-years' Darling of a pigmy size! 

See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies. 

Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 

With light upon him from his father's eyes! 

See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 90 

Some fragment from his dream of human life, 

Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral; 
And this hath now his heart. 

And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 100 

And with new joy and pride 
The little Actor cons another part; 
Filling from time to time his ^ humorous stage ' 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

VIII. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy Soul's immensity; 
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep no 

Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 37 

That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep. 
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! 

On whom those truths do rest, 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find. 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
A Presence which is not to be put by; 120 

Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight. 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 

IX. 

joy! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live, 130 

That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction: not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: — 
Not for these I raise 

The 'song of thanks and praise; i40 

But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings; 
Blank misgivings of a Creature 



38 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

Moving about in worlds not realised, 
High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised: 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 
Which, be they what they may, 150 

Are yet the fountain light of all our day. 
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake. 

To perish never; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour. 
Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 
Can utterly abolish or destroy! leo 

Hence, in a season of calm weather. 
Though inland far we be, 
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither. 
Can in a moment travel thither. 
And see the Children sport upon the shore. 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 



X. 

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 
And let the young Lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound! i7o 

We in thought will join your throng, 

Ye that pipe and ye that play. 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May! 

What though the radiance which was once so bright 

Be now for ever taken from my sight. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 39 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind; 180 

In the primal sympathy 

Which having been must ever be; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering; 

In the faith that looks through death. 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XI. 

And 0, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 

Forebode not any severing of our loves! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 

I only have relinquished one delight i90 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 

Is lovely yet; 
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 200 

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.^ 

1803-1806.] 

' Wordsworth protests that he does not mean to inculcate a belief in previous 
existence, though there is nothing in revelation to contradict it. 



40 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 



THOUGHT OF A BRITOX ON THE SUBJUGA- 
TION OF SWITZERLAND. 

Two Voices are there; one is of the sea, 

One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice: 

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 

They were thy chosen music, Liberty! 

There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee 

Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven: 

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven. 

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft: 

Then cleave, cleave to that which still is left; 

For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be 

That Mountain floods should thunder as before, 

And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 

And neither awful Voice be heard by thee! 

1807.] 



SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE, 

UPON" THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEP- 
HERD, TO THE ESTATES AI^D HONOURS OF HIS AN- 
CESTORS.^ 

High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate. 
And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song. — 
The words of ancient time I thus translate, 
Afestalstrain that hath been silent long: — 

I'During the Wars of the Roses, the ClifEoras had drawn upon themselves the hatred 
of the House of York ; in particular John Lord Clifford, father of Henry, the subject 
of this poem, had murdered the young son of the Duke of York, after the battle of 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 41 

" From town to town, from tower to tower. 

The red rose is a gladsome flower. 

Her thirty years of winter past, 

The red rose is revived at last; 

She lifts her head for endless spring, 

For everlasting blossoming: lo 

Both roses flourish, red and white: 

In love and sisterly delight 

The two that were at strife are blended. 

And all old troubles now are ended. — 

Joy- joy to both! but most to her 

Who is the flower of Lancaster! 

Behold her how She smiles to-day 

On this great throng, this bright ^rray! 

Fair greeting doth she send to all 

From every corner of the hall; 20 

But chiefly from above the board 

Where sits in state our rightful Lord, 

A Clifford to his own restored! 

" They came with banner, spear, and shield; 

And it was proved in Bosworth-field. 

Not long the Avenger was withstood — 

Earth helped him with the cry of blood: 

St. George was for us, and the might 

Of blessed Angels crowned the right. 

Loud voice the Land has uttered forth, 3o 

We loudest in the faithful north: 

Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring. 

Our streams proclaim a w^elcoming; 

Our strong-abodes and castles see 

The glory of their loyalty. 

Towton. For this, his lands were confiscated ; and Henry was brought up in con- 
cealment. He was restored to his rights after twenty-four years, in the reign of 
Henry VII., who by his marriage with Elizabeth of York, united the factions of the 
Red and the White Roses. 



42 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

" How glad is Skipton at this hour — 

Though lonely, a deserted Tower; 

Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and groom: 

We have them at the feast of Brough'm.^ 

How glad Pendragon^ — though the sleep 40 

Of years be on her! — She shall reap 

A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 

As in a dream her own renewing. 

Eejoiced is Brough,^ right glad I deem 

Beside her little humble stream; 

And she that keepeth watch and ward 

Her statelier Eden's course to guard; 

They both are happy at this hour. 

Though each is but a lonely Tower: — 

But here is perfect joy and pride 60 

For one fair House by Emont's side. 

This day, distinguished without peer 

To see her Master and to cheer — 

Him, and his Lady-mother dear! 

^' Oh! it was a time forlorn 

When the fatherless was born — 

Give her wings that she may fly. 

Or she sees her infant die! 

Swords that are with slaughter wild 

Hunt the Mother and the Child. 60 

Who will take them from the light? 

— Yonder is a man in sight — 

Yonder is a house — but where? 

No, they must not enter there. 

To the caves, and to the brooks. 

To the clouds of heaven she looks; 



1 These " Castles" or towers of defence, relics of feudal times, have been alter- 
nately repaired and demolished by the Cliffords and their enemies. They were a 
source of special pride in the family. 



SELECTIONS PROM WORDSWORTH 43 

She is speechless, but her eyes 

Pray in ghostly agonies. 

Blissful Mary, Mother mild. 

Maid and Mother undefiled, to 

Save a Mother and her Child! 

" Now Who is he that bounds with joy 

On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy? 

No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass 

Light as the wind along the grass. 

Can this be He who hither came 

In secret, like a smothered flame ? 

O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 

For shelter, and a poor man's bread! 

God loves the Child; and God hath willed so 

Thart those dear words should be fulfilled. 

The Lady's words, when forced away. 

The last she to her Babe did say : 

^ My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest 

I may not be; but rest thee, rest. 

For lowly shepherd's life is best! ' 

"Alas! when evil men are strong 

No life is good, no pleasure long. 

The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves, 

And leave Blencathara's rugged coves, 90 

And quit the flowers that summer brings 

To Glenderamakin's lofty springs; 

Must vanish, and his careless cheer 

Be turned to heaviness and fear. 

— Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise! 

Hear it, good man, old in days! 

Thou tree of covert and of rest 

For this young Bird that is distrest; 

Among thy branches safe he lay, 



44 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

And he was free to sport and play, loo 

When falcons were abroad for prey. 

" A recreant harp, that sings of fear 

And heaviness in Clifford's ear! 

I said, when evil men are strong, 

No life is good, no pleasure long, 

A weak and cowardly untruth! 

Our Clifford was a happy Youth, 

And thankful through a weary time. 

That brought him up to manhood's prime. 

— Again he wanders forth at will, no 

And tends a flock from hill to hill: 

His garb is humble; ne'er was seen 

Such garb with such a noble mien; 

Among the shepherd grooms no mate 

Hath he, a Child of strength and state! 

Yet lacks not friends for simple glee, 

Nor yet for higher sympathy. 

To his side the fallow-deer 

Came, and rested without fear; 

The eagle, lord of land and sea, 120 

Stooped down to pay him fealty; 

And both the undying fish that swim ^ 

Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him; 

The pair were servants of his eye 

In their immortality; 

And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright. 

Moved to and fro, for his delight. 

He knew the rocks wdiich Angels haunt 

Upon the mountains visitant; 

He hath kenned them taking wing: i30 

And into caves where Fairies sing 

J It is imagined by the people of the country, that there are two immortal Fish, in- 
habitants of this Tarn, which lies in the mountains not far from Threlkeld.— W. W. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 45 

He hath entered; and been told 

By Voices how men lived of old. 

Among the heavens his eye can see 

The face of thing that is to be; 

And, if that men report him right. 

His tongue could whisjDer words of might. 

— Now another day is come, 

Fitter hope, and nobler doom; 

He hath thrown aside his crook, 140 

And hath buried deep his book; 

Armour rusting in his halls 

On the blood of Clifford calls; — 

' Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance — 

Bear me to the heart of France, 

Is the longing of the Shield — 

Tell thy name, thou trembling Field; 

Field of death, where'er thou be. 

Groan thou with our victory! 

Happy day, and mighty hour, i5o 

When our Shepherd, in his power. 

Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword. 

To his ancestors restored 

Like a re-appearing Star, 

Like a glory from afar, 

First shall head the flock of war! " 

Alas! the impassioned minstrel did not know 

How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart was framed. 

How he, long forced in humble walks to go. 

Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed. iso 

Love had he found in huts where poor men lie; 
His daily teachers had been woods and rills. 
The silence that is in the starry sky, 
The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 



46 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWOKTH 

In him the savage virtue of the Race, 
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead: 
Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place 
The wisdom which adversity had bred. 

Glad were the vales, and every cottage hearth; 

The Shepherd-lord was honoured more and more; iTO 

And, ages after he was laid in earth, 

" The good Lord Clifford " was the name he bore. 

1807.] 



LAODAMIA. 

" With sacrifice before the rising morn 

Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired; 

And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn 

Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required: 

Celestial pity I again implore; — 

Restore him to my sight — great Jove, restore! " 

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 

With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands; 

While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, 

Her countenance brightens — and her eye expands; lo 

Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows; 

And she expects the issue in repose. 

terror! what hath she perceived? — joy! 
What doth she look on? — whom doth she behold? 
Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy? 
His vital presence? his corporeal mould? 
It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis He! 
And a God leads him — winged Mercury! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 47 

Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his wand 
That calms all fear; " Such grace hath crowned thy prayer, 
Laodamia! that at Jove's command *i 

Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air: 
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space; 
Accept the gift, behold him face to face! " 

Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp; 

Again that consummation she essayed; 

But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp 

As often as that eager grasp was made. 

The Phantom parts — but parts to re-unite. 

And re-assume his place before her sight. so 

" Protesilaus, lo! thy guide is gone! 
Confirm, I pray, the Vision with thy voice: 
This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne; 
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. 
Not to appal me have the Gods bestowed 
This precious boon; and blest a sad abode." 

" Great Jove, Laodamia! doth not leave 

His gifts imperfect: — Spectre though I be, 

I am not sent to scare thee or deceive; 

But in reward of thy fidelity. 4o 

And something also did my worth obtain; 

For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 

" Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold 

That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand 

Should die; but me the threat could not withhold: 

A generous cause a victim did demand; 

And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain; 

A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain." 



48 SELECTIONS PROM WORDSWORTH 

" Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, best! 

Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, so 

Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 

By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore; 

Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here thou art — 

A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 

" But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 

Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave; 

And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed 

Thou should'st elude the malice of the grave: 

Eedundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 

As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. 

'^ No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow this; 
Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side! 
Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss 
To me, this day, a second time thy bride! ^' 
Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious Parcffi threw 
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 

" This visage tells thee that my doom is past: 

Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys 

Of sense were able to return as fast 

And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 7o 

Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains: 

Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 

" Be taught, faithful Consort, to controul 
Rebellious passion: for the Gods approve 
The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul; 
A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn 
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 49 

"Ah, wherefore? — Did not Hercules by force 

Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb so 

Alcestis, a reanimated corse. 

Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom? 

Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, 

And ^^son stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 

" The Gods to us are merciful — and they 

Yet further may relent : for mightier far 

Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 

Of magic potent over sun and star. 

Is love, though oft to agony distrest. 

And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's breast. 90 

" But if thou goest, I follow—" " Peace! " he said,— 

She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered; 

The ghastly colour from his lips had fled; 

In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared 

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace. 

Brought from a pensive though a happy place. 

He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel 

In worlds whose course is equable and pure; 

No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 

The past unsighed for, and the future sure; loo 

Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 

Revived, with finer harmony pursued; 

Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there 
In happier beauty; more pellucid streams. 
An ampler ether, a diviner air, 
And fields invested with purpureal gleams; 
Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day 
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 
4 



50 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned 

That privilege by virtue. — " 111/' said he, no 

" The end of man's existence I discerned, 

Who from ignoble games and revelry 

Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight, 

While tears were thy best pastime, day and night; 

" And while my youthful peers, before my eyes 

(Each hero following his peculiar bent) 

Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 

By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent, 

Chieftains and kings in council were detained; 

What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 120 

" The wished-for wind was given: — I then revolved 

The oracle, upon the silent sea; 

And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 

That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 

The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — 

Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 

" Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 

When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife! 

On thee too fondly did my memory hang, 

And on the joys we shared in mortal life, — 130 

The paths which we had trod — these fountains, flowers; 

My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. 

" But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, 
^ Behold they tremble! — haughty their array. 
Yet of their number no one dares to die '? 
In soul I swept the indignity away: 
Old frailties then recurred: — but lofty thought, 
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 



SELECTIONS PROM WORDSWORTH 51 

" And Thou, tliougli strong in iove, art all too weak 

In reason, in self-government too slow; uo 

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 

Our blest re-union in the shades below. 

The invisible world with thee hath sympathised; 

Be thy affections raised and solemnised. 

" Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend — 

Seeking a higher object. Love was given. 

Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end; 

For this the passion to excess was driven — 

That self might be annulled; her bondage prove 

The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." 150 

Aloud she shrieked; for Hermes re-appears! 

Round the dear Shade she would have clung — 'tis vain: 

The hours are past — too brief had they been years; 

And him no mortal effort can detain: 

Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day. 

He through the portal takes his silent way, 

And on the palace floor a lifeless corse She lay. 

Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved. 

She perished; and, as for a wilful crime. 

By the Just Gods whom no weak pity moved, 160 

Was doomed to wear out her appointed time. 

Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather flowers 

Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 

— Yet tears to human suffering are due; 
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 
Are mourned by man, and not by man alone. 
As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 



52 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

From out of the tomb of him for whom she died; no 
Aod ever, when such stature they had gained 
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view, 
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight; 
A constant interchange of growth and blight! ^ 

1814.] 



YAEROW VISITED, 

SEPTEMBER, 1814. 

And is this — Yarrow? — This the Stream 

Of which my fancy clierishcd, 

So faithfully, a waking dream? 

An image that hath perished! 

that some Minstrel's harp were near, 

To utter notes of gladness, 

And chase this silence from the air, 

That fills my heart with sadness! 

Yet why? — a silvery current flows 

\Yith uncontrolled meanderings; lo 

Nor have these eyes by greener hills 

Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 

And, through her depths. Saint Mary's Lake 

Is visibly delighted; 

For not a feature of those hills 

Is in the mirror slighted. 



A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale. 
Save where that pearly whiteness 



I For other endings of " Laodamia" consult Knight's Wordsworth. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 53 

Is round the rising sun diffused, 

A tender hazy brightness; 20 

Mild dawn of promise! that excludes 

All profitless dejection; 

Though not unwilling here to admit 

A pensive recollection. 



Where was it that the famous Flower 

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? 

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 

On which the herd is feeding: 

And haply from this crystal pool, 

Now peaceful as the morning, 30 

The Water-wraith ascended thrice — 

And gave his doleful warning, 

Delicious is the Lay that sings 

The haunts of happy Lovers, 

The path that leads them to the grove, 

The leafy grove that covers: 

And Pity sanctifies the Verse 

That paints, by strength of sorrow. 

The unconquerable strength of love; 

Bear witness, rueful Yarrow! 40 



But thou, that didst appear so fair 

To fond imagination. 

Dost rival in the light of day 

Her delicate creation: 

Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 

A softness still and holy; 

The grace of forest charms decayed. 

And pastoral melancholy. 



54 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH 

That region left, the vale unfolds 

Rich groves of lofty stature, so 

With Yarrow winding through the pomp 

Of cultivated nature; 

And, rising from those lofty groves. 

Behold a Ruin hoary! 

The shattered front of Newark's Towers, 

Renowned in Border story. 

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 

For sportive youth to stray in; 

For manhood to enjoy his strength; 

And age to wear away in! eo 

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 

A covert for protection 

Of tender thoughts, that nestle there — 

The brood of chaste affection. 

How sweet, on this autumnal day. 

The wild-wood fruits to gather. 

And on my True-love's forehead plant 

A crest of blooming heather! 

And what if I enwreathed my own! 

'Twere no offence to reason; to 

The sober Hills thus deck their brows 

To meet the wintry season. 

I see — but not by sight alone, 

Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; 

A ray of fancy still survives — 

Her sunshine plays upon thee! 

Thy ever-youthful waters keep 

A course of lively pleasure; 

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe. 

Accordant to the measure. so 



SELECTIONS FROM;. WORDSWORTH 55 

The vapours linger round the Heights, 
They melt, and soon must vanish; 
One hour is theirs, no more is mine — 
Sad thought, which I would banish, 
But that I know, where'er I go. 
Thy genuine image. Yarrow! 
Will dwell with Tne — to heighten joy. 
And cheer my mind in sorrow. 



TO A SKYLARK. 

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! 
Dost thou despise the earth \Vhere cares abound? 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will. 
Those quivering wings composed, that music still! 

To the last point of vision, and beyond. 
Mount, daring warbler! that love-prompted strain 
('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) 
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: 
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing 
All independent of the leafy spring.^ 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; 

A privacy of glorious light is thine; 

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 

Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; 

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home! 



1825. T 



1 This stanza appeared only in the editions of 1827-43. In 1845 it was transferred 
to " A Morning Exercise." 




After Northcote. 



S. T. COLERIDGE. 



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SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

THE EOLIAN HARP. 

COMPOSED AT CLEYEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE. 

My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined 

Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is 

To sit beside our cot, our cot overgrown 

With white-fiowered Jasmin and the broad-leaved Myrtle 

(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!), 

And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light. 

Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve 

Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) 

Shine opposite ! How exquisite the scents 

Snatched from yon bean-field! and the world so hushed! lo 

The stilly murmur of the distant Sea 

Tells us of Silence. 

And that simplest Lute, 
Placed lengthways in the clasping casement, hark! 
How by the desultory breeze caressed, 
Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover. 
It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs 
Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its strings 
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes 
Over delicious surges sink and rise, 

Such a soft floating witchery of sound 20 

As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve 
Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, 
Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers, 

57 



58 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

Footless and wild^ like birds of Paradise, 

Nor pause, nor j^ercli, hovering on untamed wing! 

the one life within us and abroad, 

Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, 

A light in sound, a sound-like power in light, 

Ehythm in all thought, and joyance everywhere — 

Methinks, it should have been impossible so 

Not to love all things in a world so filled; 

Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air 

Is Music slumbering on her instrument. 

And thus, my love! as on the midway slope 
Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, 
Whilst through my half -closed eyelids I behold 
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main. 
And tranquil muse upon tranquillity; 
Full many a thought uncalled and undetained, 
And many idle flitting phantasies, 40 

Traverse my indolent and passive brain. 
As wild and various as the random gales 
That swell and flutter on this subject lute! 

And what if all of animated nature 
Be but organic harps diversely framed, 
That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps, 
Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze. 
At once the Soul of each, and God of All? 

But thy more serious eye a mild reproof 
Darts, beloved woman! nor such thoughts so 

Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject. 
And biddest me walk humbly wdth my God. 
Meek daughter in the family of Christ! 
Well hast thou said and holily dispraised 
These shapings of the unregenerate mind; 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 59 

Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break 

On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. 

For never guiltless may I speak of him, 

The Incomprehensible! save when with awe 

I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels; eo 

Who with his saving mercies healed me, 

A sinful and most miserable Man, 

Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess 

Peace, and this Cot, and thee, dear honoured Maid! 

August 20, 1795.] 



SONNET. 

TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE 
NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME. 

Charles! my slow heart was only sad, when first 
I scanned that face of feeble infancy: 
For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst 
All I had been, and all my child might be! 
But when I saw it on its Mother's arm. 
And hanging at her bosom (she the while 
Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile), 
Then I was thrilled and melted, and most warm 
Impressed a Father's kiss: and all beguiled 
Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, 
I seemed to see an angel-form appear — 
'Tw^as even thine, beloved woman mild! 
So for the Mother's sake the Child was dear, 
And dearer was the Mother for the Child. 

1796.] 



60 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.^ 
iN^ seve:n^ parts. 

Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum universitate. 
Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit, et gradus et cognationes et dis- 
crimina et singulorum munera ? Quid agunt ? quae loca habitant ? Harum rerum 
notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit. Juvat, interea, non 
diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in tabula, majoris et melioris mundi imagi- 
nem contemplari : ne mens assuefacta hodiernse vitae minutiis se contrahat nimis, et 
tota subsidat in pusillas cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, modus- 
que servandus, ut certa ab incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus. 

T. Burnet : " Archaeol. Phil.," p. 68. 

Argument, r 

How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold 
Country toward the South Pole ; and how from thence she made her 
course to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean ; and of the 
strange things that befell ; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere 
came back to liis own Country. [1798.] 

Part I. 
An ancient It is an ancient Mariner, 

Mariner meet- » i i j . i i? j. i 

eth three Gal- And he stoppetli One ot three. 

lants bidden to ^-r»,ii i n ttjj- 

a wedding- By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, 

tainethone. Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? 

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide. 
And I am next of kin; 
The guests are met, the feast is set: 
May'st hear the merry din.' 

' This poem formed the beginning of " Lyrical Ballads " as first printed. For its 
genesis see *' Biographia Literaria," Chap. XIV., and the notes of Campbell's edition 
of " Coleridge's Poetical Works." [Macmillan.] The text here given is approximately 
that of the " Lyrical Ballads." edition of 1800. For the original version, 1T98, with 
archaic spelling and many variations in the text, see Appendix E of Campbell's 
Coleridge. 
The marginal glosses were added in "• Sibylline Leaves," 1817. 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



61 



The Wedding- 
Guest is spell- 
bound by the 
eye of the old 
seafaring 
man, and con- 
strained to 
hear his tale. 



The Mariner 
tells how the 
ship sailed 
southward 
with a good 
wind and fair 
weather, till 
it reached the 
Line. 



He holds him with his skinny hand, 
* There was a ship/ quoth he. lo 

' Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon! ' 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 

He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The Wedding-Guest stood still. 
And listens like a three years' child: 
The Mariner hath his will. 

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: 

He cannot choose but hear; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 

The bright-eyed Mariner. 20 

' The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared. 

Merrily did we drop 

Below the kirk, below the hill. 

Below the lighthouse top. 

The sun came up upon the left. 
Out of the sea came he ! 
And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea. 



Higher and higher every day. 

Till over the mast at noon — ' 

The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 



30 



The Wedding- 
Guest heareth 
the bridal 
music ; but 
the Mariner 
continueth hia 
tale. 



The bride hath paced into the hall. 
Red as a rose is she; 
^N'odding their heads before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 



The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear; 



62 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



The ship 
drawn by a 
etorm toward 
the south pole. 



And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

^ And now the Storm-Blast came, and he 
Was tyrannous and strong: 
He struck with his o'ertaking wings. 
And chased us south alons". 



40 



The land of 
ice, and of 
fearful 

sounds, where 
no living 
thing was to be 
seen. 



With sloping masts and dipping prow. 
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe, 
And forward bends his head, 
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 
And southward aye we fled. 

And now there came both mist and snow. 
And it grew wondrous cold: 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by. 
As green as emerald. 

And through the drifts the snowy cliffs 
Did send a dismal sheen: 
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
The ice was all between. 



60 



Till a great 
sea-bird, 
called the 
Albatross, 
came through 
the snow-fog, 
and was re- 
ceived with 
treat joy and 
ospitallty. 



The ice was here, the ice was there, 
The ice was all around: eo 

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled. 
Like noises in a s wound! 

At length did cross an Albatross, 
Thorough the fog it came; 
As if it had been a Christian soul. 
We hailed it in God's name. 

It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
And round and round it flew. 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



63 



And lo ! the 

Albatross 
proveth a bird 
of good omen, 
and f oUoweth 
the ship as it 
returned 
northward, 
through fog 
and floating 
ice. 



The ice did split with a thunder-fit; 
The hehnsman steered us through! 

And a good south wind sprung up behind; 
The Albatross did follow, 
And every day, for food or play. 
Came to the mariner's hollo! 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 

It perched for vespers nine; 

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white. 

Glimmered the white moon-shine.' 



TO 



The ancient 
Mariner 
inhospitably 
killeth the 
pious bird of 
good omen. 



^ God save thee, ancient Mariner! 
From the fiends, that plague thee thus! — 
Why look'st thou so ? ' — With my cross-bow 
I shot the Albatross. 



His ship- 
mates cry out 
against the 
ancient Mari- 
ner, for killing 
the bird of 
good luck. 



Part II. 

The sun now rose upon the right: 
Out of the sea came he. 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
AVent down into the sea. 

And the good south wdnd still blew behind, 

But no sweet bird did follow. 

Nor any day for food or play 

Came to the mariner's hollo! 90 

And I had done a hellish thing, 

And it would work 'em woe: 

For all averred, I had killed the bird 

That made the breeze to bloAv. 

Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay. 

That made the breeze to blow ! 



64 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



But when the 
fog cleared 
oft, they jus- 
tify the same, 
and thus make 
themselves 
accomplices 
in the crime. 



Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 

The glorious Sun uprist: 

Then all averred, I had killed the bird 

That brought the fog and mist. 

'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay. 

That bring the fog and mist. 



The fair breeze 
continues ; the 
ship enters the 
Pacific Ocean, 
and sails north- 
ward, even till 
it reaches the 
Line. 



The ship hath 
been suddenly 
becalmed. 



The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew. 
The furrow followed free: ^ 
We were the first that ever burst 
Into that silent sea. 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 

'Twas sad as sad could be; 

And we did speak only to break 

The silence of the sea! no 



All in a hot and copper sky. 
The bloody Sun, at noon. 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the Moon. 

Day after day, day after day. 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 



And the Al- 
batross begins 
to be avenged. 



Water, water, every where. 
And all the boards did shrink; 
Water, water, every where, 
Nor any drop to drink. 



120 



' This is the original reading. In " Sibylline Leaves." Coleridge having observed 
that this was the appearance as seen by a spectator from the shore or from another 
vessel, changed the line to : 

The furrow stream'd off free. 
In 1828 he replaced the more euphonious, if less correct form. 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



65 



A Spirit had fol- 
lowed them ; 
one of the invis- 
ible inhabitants 
of this planet, 
neither departed 
souls nor an- 
gels ; concern- 
ing whom the 
learned Jew, 
Josephns, and 
the Platonic 
Constantinopol- 
itan, Michael 
Psellus, may 
be consulted. 
They are very 
numerous, and 
there is no 
climate or ele- 
ment without 
cue or more. 



The very deep did rot: Christ! 
That ever this should be! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night; 
The water, like a witch's oils. 
Burnt green, and blue and white. 

And some in dreams assured were 
Of the Spirit that plagued us so: 
Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 

And every tongue, through utter drought, 
Was withered at the root; 
"We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 



130 



The ship- 
mates in their 
sore distress, 
would fain 
throw the 
whole ^uilt on 
the ancient 
Mariner: in 
sign whereof 
they hang the 
dead sea-bird 
round his neck. 



Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young! 
Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 



Part III. 



140 



The ancient 
Mariner be- 
holdeth a sign 
in the element 
afar off. 



There passed a weary time. Each throat 

AYas parched, and glazed each eye. 

A weary time ! a weary time ! 

How glazed each weary eye ! 

When looking westward, I beheld 

A something in the sky. 

At first it seemed a little speck, 
And then it seemed a mist; 



uo 



66 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



At its nearer 
approach, it 
seemeth him 
to be a ship ; 
and at a dear 
ransom he 
freeth his 
speech from 
the bonds of 
thirst. 



A flash of joy ; 



And horror 
follows. For 
can it be a 
ship that 
comes onward 
without wind 
or tide ? 



It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist. 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! 
And still it neared and neared: 
As if it dodged a water-sprite, 
It plunged and tacked and veered. 

AVith throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
We could nor laugh nor wail; 
Through utter drought all dumb we stood! 
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, leo 

And cried, A sail! a sail! 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. 
Agape they heard me call: 
Gramercy! they for joy did grin, 
And all at once their breath drew in. 
As they were drinking all. 

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! 
Hither to work us weal; 
Without a breeze, without a tide, 
She steadies with upright keel! 



170 



The western wave was all a-flame, 

The day was well nigh done! 

Almost upon the western wave 

Rested the broad bright Sun; 

When that strange shape drove suddenly 

Betwixt us and the Sun. 



It seemeth 
him but the 
skeleton of a 
ship. 



And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven's Mother send us grace!) 
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered, 
With broad and burning face. iso 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



67 



Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
How fast she nears and nears! 
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
Like restless gossameres? 



And its ribs 
are seen as 
bars on the 
face of the set- 
ting Sun. 
The Spectre- 
Woman and her 
Death-mate, 
and no other on 
board the ekel- 
eton-ship. 

Like vessel, 
like crew ! 



Death and 
Life-in- 
Death have 
diced for the 
ship's crew, 
and she (the 
latter) winneth 
the ancient 
Mariner. 



No twilight 
within the 
courts of the 
Sun. 



At the rising 
of the Moon, 



19« 



Are those her ribs through which the Sun 
Did peer, as through a grate? 
And is that Woman all her crew? 
Is that a Death? and are there two? 
Is Death that Woman's mate? ^ 

Her lips were red, her looks were free, 
Her locks were yellow as gold: 
Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 
Who thicks man's blood with cold. 

The naked hulk alongside came. 

And the twain were casting dice; 

' The game is done! I've won, I've won! ' 

Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

The Sun's rim dips; tlie stars rush out: 

At one stride comes the dark; 200 

With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 

Off shot the spectre-bark. 

We listened and looked sideways up! 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 

My life-blood seemed to sip! 

The stars were dim, and thick the night. 

The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; 



> In the edition of 1798, the account of Death and the Woman was much more 
horrible, as was the case also in the first draft of the description of Geraldine in 
"Christabel" ; later, Coleridge with his fine perceptions saw that it would be more 
effective not to present too distinct a visual image, but to leave more to the imagi- 
nation. 



68 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



From the sails the dew did drip — 
Till elomb above the eastern bar 
The horned Moon, with one bright star 
Within the nether tip.^ 



210 



One after 
another, 



One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 
Too quick for groan or sigh, 
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 
And cursed me with his eye. 



His shipmates 
drop down 
dead. 



Four times fifty living men, 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump. 
They dropped down one by one. 



But Life-in- 
Death be- 
gins her work 
on the ancient 
Mariner. 



The souls did from their bodies fly,- 
They fled to bliss or woe! 
And every soul, it passed me by. 
Like the whizz of my cross-bow! 



Part IV. 



The Wedding- 
Guest feareth 
that a Spirit is 
talking to him ; 



^ I fear thee, ancient Mariner! 

I fear thy skinny hand ! 

And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 

As is the ribbed sea-sand.^ 



I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
And thy skinny hand, so brown.' — 



1 Coleridge had heard of a " superstition among sailors that something evil is 
about to happen whenever a star dogs the moon." Perhaps it is hardly necessary to 
call attention to the fact that a star can never be seen between the horns of the cres- 
cent moon. 

3 For the last two lines of this stanza I am indebted to Mr. Wordsworth. — S. T. C. 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



69 



But the an- 
cient Mai'iner 
assureth him 
of his bodily 
life, and pro- 
ceedeth to re- 
late his horri- 
ble penance. 



He despiseth 
the creatures 
of the calm. 



And envieth 
that they 
should live, 
and 80 many 
lie dead. _ 



Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! 
This body dropt not down. 

Alone, alone, all, all alone. 
Alone on a wide wide sea! • 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

The many men, so beautiful! 

And they all dead did lie : 

And a thousand thousand slimy things 

Lived on; and so did I. 

I looked upon the rotting sea. 
And drew my eyes away; 
I looked upon the rotting deck. 
And there the dead men lay. 

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; 
But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 



240 



But the curse 
liveth for him 
in the eye of 
the dead men. 



I closed my lids, and kept them close, 

And the balls like pulses beat; 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the 

sky 250 

Lay like a load on my weary eye. 
And the dead were at my feet. 

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
Xor rot nor reek did they: 
The look with which they looked on me 
Had never passed away. 

An orphan's curse would drag to hell 
A spirit from on high; 



70 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



In his loneliness 
and fixedness he 
yeameth tow- 
ards the jour- 
neying Moon, 
and the stars 
that still so- 
journ, yet still 
move onward ; 
and everywhere 
the blue sky be- 
longs to them, 
and is their ap- 
pointed rest, 
and their native 
country and 
their owTi nat- 
ural homes, 
which they enter 
unannounced, 
as lords that are 
certainly ex- 
pected, and yet 
there is a silent 
joy at their ar- 
rival. 

By the light of 
the Moon he 
beholdeth 
God's creat- 
ures of the 
great calm. 



But oh! more horrible than that 
Is a curse in a dead man's eye! 2 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 
And yet I could not die. 

The moving Moon went up the sky. 
And no where did abide: 
Softly she was going up. 
And a star or two beside — 

Her beams bemocked the sultry main. 
Like April hoar-frost spread; 
But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
The charmed water burnt alway 
A still and awful red. 

Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

I watched the water-snakes: 

They moved in tracks of shining white. 

And when they reared, the elfish light 

Fell off in hoary flakes. 



270 



Within the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich attire: 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 

They coiled and swam; and every track 

Was a flash of golden fire. 



Their beauty 
and their 
happiness. 



He blesseth 
them in his 
heart. 



happy living things! no tongue 

Their beauty might declare: 

A spring of love gushed from my heart. 

And I blessed them unaware: 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 

And I blessed them unaware! 



SELECTIOJS-S FROM COLERIDGE 



71 



The spell be- 
gins to break. 



The selfsame moment I could pray; 
And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 



By grace of 
the holy 
Mother, the 
ancient Mari- 
ner is refreshed 
with rain. 



Part V. 

Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, 
Beloved from pole to pole! 
To Mary Queen the praise be given! 
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
That slid into my soul. 

The silly buckets on the deck, 

That had so long remained, 

I dreamt that they were filled with dew; 

And when I awoke, it rained. 300 

My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams. 
And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs: 
I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep. 
And was a blessed ghost. 



He heareth 
sounds, and 
seeth strange 
sights and 
commotions in 
the sky and 
the element. 



And soon I heard a roaring wind: 
It did not come anear; 
But with its sound it shook the sails, 
That were so thin and sere. 



310 



The upper air burst into life! 
And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 



73 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

To and fro they were hurried about! 
And to and fro, and in and out, 
The wan stars danced between. 



And the coming wind did roar more loud, 

And the sails did sigh like sedge; 

And the rain jDoured down from one black cloud; 

321 



The Moon was at its edge 



The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
The Moon was at its side: 
Like waters shot from some high crag, 
The lightning fell with never a jag, 
A river steep and wide. 



The bodies of 
the Bhip's 
crew are in- 
spired, and 
the ship moves 
on; 



The loud wind never reached the ship. 
Yet now the ship moved on! 
Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
The dead men gave a groan. 



330 



They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; 
It had been strange, even in a dream. 
To have seen those dead men rise. 



The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; 

Yet never a breeze up-blew; 

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. 

Where they were wont to do; 

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — 

We were a ghastly crew. 



340 



The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee: 
The body and I pulled at one rope, 
But he said nought to me. 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



73 



But not by 

the souls of 
the men, nor 
by daemons of 
earth or mid- 
dle air, but by 
a blessed troop 
of angelic 
spirits, sent 
down by the 
invocation of 
the guardian 
saint. 



^ I fear thee, ancient Mariner! ' 
Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 
^Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 
Which to their corses came again. 
But a troop of spirits blest: 

For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, 
And clustered round the mast; 351 

Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, 
And from their bodies passed. 

Around, around, flew each sweet sound. 
Then darted to the Sun; 
Slowly the sounds came back again, 
Now mixed, now one by one. 

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 

I heard the sky-lark sing; 

Sometimes all little birds that are, seo 

How they seemed to fill the sea and air 

With their sweet jargoning! 

And now 'twas like all instruments. 
Now like a lonely flute; 
And now it is an angel's song, 
That makes the heavens be mute. 



It ceased; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 

Singeth a quiet tune. 

Till noon we quietly sailed on. 
Yet never a breeze did breathe: 



370 



74 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



The lonesome 
Spirit from the 
Bouth-pole 
carries on the 
ship as far as 
the Line, in 
obedience to 
the angelic 
troop, out 
still requireth 
vengeance. 



Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 

Under the keel nine fathom deep. 
From the land of mist and snow. 
The spirit slid: and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 
The sails at noon left off their tune 
And the ship stood still also. 

The Sun, right up above the mast. 
Had fixed her to the ocean: 
But in a minute she 'gan stir. 
With a short uneasy motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her length 
With a short uneasy motion. 



380 



Then like a pawing horse let go, 
She made a sudden bound: 
It flung the blood into my head, 
And I fell down in a swound. 



390 



The Polar 
Spirit's fel- 
low-daemons, 
the invisible 
inhabitants of 
the element, 
take part in 
hie wrong ; 
and two of 
them relate, 
one to the 
other, that 
penance long 
and heavy for 
the ancient 
Mariner hath 
been accorded 
to the Polar 
Spirit, who 
returneth 
southward. 



How long in that same fit I lay, 
I have not to declare; 
But ere my living life returned, 
I heard and in my soul discerned 
Two voices in the air. 

' Is it he? ' quoth one, ' Is this the man? 
By him who died on cross, 
With his cruel bow he laid full low, 
The harmless Albatross. 

The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow. 
He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow.' 



400 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew: 

Quo'ih he, ^ The man hath penance done, 

And penance more will do/ 



75 



Pakt VI. 

FIEST VOICE. 

*But tell me, tell me! speak again, 
Thy soft response renewing — 
What makes that ship drive on so fast? 
What is the ocean doing? ' 



410 



SECOND VOICE. 

' Still as a slave before his lord, 
The Ocean hath no blast; 
His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the Moon is cast — 

If he may know which way to go; 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see! how graciously 
She looketh down on him.' 



FIKST VOICE. 



The Mariner 
hath been cast 
into a trance ; 
for the angelic 
power causeth 
the vessel to 
drive north- 
ward faster 
than human 
life could 
endure. 



^ But why drives on that ship so fast, 
Without or wave or wind? ' 



SECOND VOICE. 

' The air is cut away before, 
And closes from behind. 



76 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! 
Or we shall be belated: 
For slow and slow that ship will go. 
When the Mariner's trance is abated/ 



The Bupernat- 
ural motion is 
retarded ; the 
Mariner 
awakes, and 
his penance 
begins anew. 



I woke, and we were sailing on 43 

As in a gentle weather: 
'Twas night, -calm night, the Moon was high; 
The dead men stood together. 



All stood together on the deck. 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter: 
All fixed on me their stony eyes 
That in the Moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they died. 
Had never passed away: 
I could not draw my eyes from theirs. 
Nor turn them np to pray. 



The curse is 
finally expi- 
ated. 



And now this spell was snapt: once more 
I viewed the ocean green, 
And looked far forth, yet little saw 
Of what had else been seen — 



Like one that on a lonesome road 

Doth walk in fear and dread, 

And having once turned round walks on. 

And turns no more his head; 

Because he knows, a frightful fiend 450 

Doth close behind him tread. 



But soon there breathed a wind on me. 
Nor sound nor motion made: 
Its path was not upon the sea. 
In ripple or in shade. 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



77 



It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
It mingled strangely with my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship. 
Yet she sailed softly too : 
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
On me alone it blew. 



460 



And the an- 
cient Mariner 
beholdeth his 
native 
country. 



Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed 
The light-house top I see ? 
Is this the hill? is this the kirk? 
Is this mine own countree ? 



We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, 
And I with sobs did pray — 
let me be awake, my God ! 
Or let me sleep alway. 

The harbour-bay was clear as glass. 
So smoothly it was strewn! 
And on the bay the moonlight lay. 
And the shadow of the Moon. 



470 



The angelic 
spirits leave 
the dead 
bodies. 

And appear 
in their own 
forms of light. 



The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
That stands above the rock: 
The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 

And the bay was white with silent light. 
Till rising from the same, 
Full many shapes, that shadows were. 
In crimson colors came. 

A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were: 



480 



78 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
Oh, Christ! what saw I there! 

Each corse lay fiat, lifeiess and fiat, 

And, by the lioly rood! 

A man all light, a seraph-man ' 490 

On every corse there stood. 

This seraph -band, each waved his hand: 
It was a heavenly sight! 
They stood as signals to the land, 
Each one a lovely light: 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 
No voice did they impart — 
No voice; but oh! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, soo 

I heard the Pilot's cheer; 

My head was turned perforce away. 

And I saw a boat appear. 

The Pilot, and the Pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast : 
Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third — I heard his voice: 

It is the Hermit good! 

He singeth.loud his godly hymns bio 

That he makes in the wood. 

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 

The Albatross's blood. 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



79 



Part VII. 



The Hermit of 
the wood. 



Approacheth 
the ship with 
wonder. 



This Hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea. 
How loudly his sweet voice he rears! 
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 
He hath a cushion plump: 520 

It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, 
'^ Why, this is strange, I trow! 
Where are those lights so many and fair. 
That signal made but now ? ' 

' Strange, by my faith! ' the Hermit said— 

* And they answered not our cheer! 

The planks look warped! and see those sails, 

How thin they are and sere! 530 

I never saw aught like to them. 

Unless perchance it were 

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 

My forest-brook along; 

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 

And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 

That eats the she-wolf's young.^ 

^ Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look — 
(The Pilot made reply) 

I am a-f eared ' — ^ Push on, push on ! ' 54o 

Said the Hermit cheerily. 



80 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

The boat came closer to the ship. 
But I nor spake nor stirred; 
The boat came close beneath the ship. 
And straight a sound was heard. 



The ship sud- 
denly sinketh. 



The ancient 
Mai'iner is 
saved in the 
Pilot's boat. 



Under the water it rumbled on, 
Still louder and more dread: 
It reached the ship, it split the bay; 
The ship went down like lead. 

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 

Which sky and ocean smote. 

Like one that hath been seven days drowned 

My body lay afloat; 

But swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the Pilot's boat. 



550 



Upon the whirl, where sank the ship. 
The boat spun round and round : 
And all was sfill, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
And fell down in a fit; 
The Holy Hermit raised his eyes 
And prayed where he did sit. 

I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 

Laughed loud and long, and all the while 

His eyes went to and fro. 

''Ha! ha! ' quoth he, ^ full plain I see, 

The Devil knows how to row.' 



560 



And now, all in my own eountree, 
I stood on the firm land! 



570 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



81 



The Hermit stepped forth from the boat. 
And scarcely he could stand. 



The ancient 
Mariner 
earnestly en- 
treateth the 
Hermit to 
shrieve him ; 
and the pen- 
ance of life 
falls on him. 



' shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man! ' 
The Hermit crossed his brow. 
' Say quick,' quoth he, ' I bid thee say — 
What manner of man art thou? ' 

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 

With a woful agony. 

Which forced me to begin my tale; 

And then it left me free. 



580 



And ever and 
anon through 
out his future 
life an agony 
constraineth 
him to travel 
from land to 
land, 



Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
That agony returns; 
And till my ghastly tale is told. 
This heart within me burns. 

I pass, like night, from land to land; 
I have strange power of speech; 
That moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear me: 
To him my tale I teach. 



What loud uproar bursts from that door! 
The wedding-guests are there: 
But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are: 
And hark the little vesper bell. 
Which biddeth me to prayer! 



Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide wide sea: 
So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 



600 



82 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



And to teach, 
by his own 
example, 
love and 
reverence to 
all things that 
God made and 
loveth. 



sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
'Tis sweeter far to me, 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company! — 

To walk together to the kirk. 

And all together pray, 

While each to his great Father bends, 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends. 

And youths and maidens gay! 

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! 
He prayeth well, who loA^eth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small; 
For the dear God who loveth us. 
He made and loveth all. 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar. 
Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest 
Turned from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that hath been stunned, 
And is of sense forlorn: 
A sadder and a wiser man, 
He rose the morrow morn. 



610 



620 



1797—1798] 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



KUBLA KHAN.i 



In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 

A stately pleasure-dome decree: 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man 

Down to a sunless sea. 
So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round: 
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills, 
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills, lo 

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But, oh that deep romantic chasm which slanted 

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 

A savage place! as holy and enchanted 

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 

By woman wailing for her demon-lover! 

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, 

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 

A mighty fountain momently was forced: 

Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burst 20 

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 



1 In 1798, not the summer of 1T97 (" Letters of S. T. Colerid^^e,"' cd'ted by E. H, 
Coleridge, p. 245), Coleridge, having quarrelled \vith his friend Lloyd who Ivcd with 
him, and feeling otherwise depressed, retired to a lonely farm-house where he first 
resorted to the use of opium. He had been reading, according to h^s account in 
I'urchas's " Pilgrimage," the sentence, " Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace 
to be built, and a stately garden thereunto. And thus ten miles of fertile ground were 
inclosed with a wall," when he fell asleep, and dreamed, as he says, from two to three 
hundred lines of poetry. On waking he wrote down what we have of " Kubla Khan " ; 
but being called away on business and returning an hour later, he found that all the 
rest, except a few confused images, had faded from his mind In later years he 
talked of completing it, but it remains to us only as a bit of the most sumptuous mu- 
sic in our poetry, expressive of " heaven and elysian bowers." 



84 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: 
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran. 
Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices 2:)rophesying war! so 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Floated midway on the waves; 

Where was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device, 
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw: 

It was an Abyssinian maid. 

And on her dulcimer she played, 40 

Singing of Mount Abora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song, 

To such a deep delight 'twould win me, 
That with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air. 
That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 
And all who heard should see them there, 
And all should cry. Beware! Beware! 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair! so 

Weave a circle round him thrice. 
And close your eyes with holy dread, 
For he on honey-dew hath fed. 
And drunk the milk of Paradise. 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



CHEISTABEL.^ 



PART I. 

'Tis "Ihe middle of night by the castle clock, 
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock; 

Tu — whit! Tu — whoo! 

And hark, again! the crowing cock. 
How drowsily it crew. 

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, 

Hath a toothless mastiff, which 

From her kennel beneath the rock 

Maketh answer to the clock, 

Four for the qnarters, and twelve for the hour; lo 

Ever and aye, by shine and shower, 

Sixteen short howls, not over loud; 

Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 



1 Coleridge was preparing "Christabel" for the second volume of "Lyrical Bal- 
lads," but during the printing other poems were inserted. Part I. was written in 1798, 
Part n., in Keswick, in 1800, when Coleridge was already beginning to feel the de- 
pression which ultimately overmastered him. Though he often talked of finishing 
it and dec'ared that he had the whole story planned, it is certain that he never could 
have carr'ed it on in the spirit with which it was begun. 

It is written, as Coleridge says, upon a new principle (borrowed from Chatterton) : 
that of counting in each line the accents not the syllables— always four accents, 
though the number of syllables is irregular. Pauses, even including an accent, are 
sometimes introduced in a manner quite new in literary poetry, though familiar to 
any child who knows Mother Goose, cf.: 

Is John Smith with -I in? 

: r Z-J'\r ^ 

Ay, that he I is. I 

r c z\r n 

Borrowed from Lanier's " Science of English Verse," p. 188. 



86 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

Is the night chilly and dark? 

The night is chilly, hut not dark. 

The thin grey cloud is spread on high. 

It covers but not hides the sky. 

The moon is behind, and at the full; 

And yet she looks both small and dull. 

The night is chill, the cloud is grey: 20 

'Tis a month before the month of May, 

And the Spring comes slowly up this way. 

The lovely lady, Christabel, 

Whom her father loves so well. 

What makes her in the wood so late, 

A furlong from the castle gate ? 

She had dreams all yesternight 

Of her own betrothed knight; 

And she in the midnight wood will pray 

For the weal of her lover that's far away. so 

She stole along, she nothing spoke, 
The sighs she heaved were soft and low, 
And nought was green upon the oak 
But moss and rarest mistletoe: 
She kneels beneath the huge oak-tree. 
And in silence prayeth she. 

The lady sprang up suddenly. 

The lovely lady, Christabel! 

It moaned as near, as near can be, 

But what it is she cannot tell. — 4o 

On the other side it seems to be, 

Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak-tree. 

The night is chill; the forest bare; 
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 87 

There is not wind enough in the air 

To move away the ringlet curl 

From the lovely lady's cheek — 

There is not wind enough to twirl 

The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 

That dances as often as dance it can, eo 

Hanging so light, and hanging so high. 

On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. 

Hush, beating heart of Christabel! 
Jesu, Maria, shield her well! 
She folded her arms beneath her cloak. 
And stole to the other side of the oak. 
What sees she there? 

There she sees a damsel bright, 

Drest in a silken robe of white. 

That shadowy in the moonlight shone: eo 

The neck that made that white robe wan. 

Her stately neck, and arms were bare; 

Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were. 

And wildly glittered here and there 

The gems entangled in her hair. 

I guess, 'twas frightful there to see 

A lady so richly clad as she — 

Beautiful exceedingly! 

Mary mother, save me now! 

(Said Christabel,) And who art thou? ro 

The lady strange made answer meet. 
And her voice was faint and sweet: — 
Have pity on my sore distress, 
I scarce can speak for weariness: 
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear! 
Said Christabel, How camest thou here? 



88 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet, 
Did thus pursue her answer meet: — 

My sire is of a noble line, 

And my name is Geraldine: so 

Five warriors seized me yestermorn, 

Me, even me, a maid forlorn: 

They choked my cries with force and fright. 

And tied me on a palfrey white. 

The palfrey was as fleet as wind. 

And they rode furiously behind. 

They spurred amain, their steeds were white; 

And once we crossed the shade of night. 

As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 

I have no thought what men they be; so 

Nor do I know how long it is 

(For I have lain entranced I wis) 

Since one, the tallest of the five. 

Took me from the palfrey's back, 

A weary woman, scarce alive. 

Some muttered words his comrades spoke: 

He placed me underneath this oak. 

He swore they would return with haste; 

Whither they went I cannot tell — 

I thought I heard, some minutes past, loo 

Sounds as of a castle bell. 

Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she). 

And help a wretched maid to flee. 

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand 

And comforted fair Geraldine: 

well, bright dame! may you command 

The service of Sir Leoline; 

And gladly our stout chivalry 

"Will he send forth and friends withal 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 89 1 

I 

To guide and guard you safe and free no j 

Home to your noble father's hall. • ■ 

She rose : and forth with steps they passed 

That strove to be, and were not, fast. ] 

Her gracious stars the lady blest, : 

And thus spake on sweet Christabel: ' 

All our household are at rest, \ 

The hall as silent as the cell; \ 

Sir Leoline is weak in health i 

And may not well awakened be, " 

But we will move as if in stealth, 120 ' 

And I beseech your courtesy. 

This night, to share your couch with me. I 

They crossed the moat, and Christabel 

Took the key that fitted well; j 

A little door she opened straight, j 

All in the middle of the gate; j 

The gate that was ironed within and without, ' 

Where an army in battle array had marched out. ! 

The lady sank, belike through pain, \ 

And Christabel with might and main iso ] 

Lifted her up, a weary weight, i 

Over the threshold of the gate: ■ 

Then the lady rose again, \ 

And moved, as she were not in pain. ; 

So free from danger, free from fear, i 

They crossed the court: right glad they were. • 

And Christabel devoutly cried j 

To the lady by her side, \ 

Praise we the Viro^in all divine I 

\ 

Who hath rescued thee from thy distress! i40 . 

Alas, alas! said Geraldine, : 

I cannot speak for weariness. 



90 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

So free from danger, free from fear, 

They crossed the court: right glad they were. 

Outside her kennel, the mastiff old 

Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 

The mastiff old did not awake. 

Yet she an angry moan did make! 

And what can ail the mastiff bitch? 

Never till now she uttered yell iso 

Beneath the eye of Christabel. 

Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch: 

For what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 

They passed the hall, that echoes still. 

Pass as lightly as you will ! 

The brands were flat, the brands were dying. 

Amid their own white ashes lying; 

But when the lady passed, there came 

A tongue of light, a fit of flame; 

And Christabel saw the lady's eye, i6o 

And nothing else saw she thereby, 

Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall, 

Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall. 

softly tread, said Christabel, 

My father seldom sleepeth well. 

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare. 

And, jealous of the listening air. 

They steal their way from stair to stair, 

Now in glimmer, and now in gloom. 

And now they pass the Baron's room, no 

As still as death, with stifled breath! 

And now have reached her chamber door; 

And now doth Geraldine press down 

The rushes of the chamber floor. 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 91 

The moon shines dim in the open air. 

And not a moonbeam enters here. 

But they without its light can see 

The chamber carved so curiously, 

Carved with figures strange and sweet, 

All made out of the carver's brain, iso 

For a lady's chamber meet: 

The lamp with twofold silver chain 

Is fastened to an angel's feet. 

The silver lamp burns dead and dim; 

But Christabel the lamp will trim. 

She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright. 

And left it swinging to and fro. 

While Geraldine, in wretched plight. 

Sank down upon the floor below. 

weary lady, Geraldine, iso 

1 pray you, drink this cordial wine! 
It is a wine of virtuous powers; 
My mother made it of wild flowers. 

And win your mother pity me. 

Who am a maiden most forlorn? 

Christabel answered — ^Woe is me! 

She died the hour that I was born. 

I have heard the grey-haired friar tell 

How on her death-bed she did say. 

That she should hear the castle bell 200 

Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. 

mother dear! that thou wert here! 

1 would, said Geraldine, she were! 

But soon with altered voice, said she — 
* Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine! 
I have power to bid thee flee.' 



92 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

Alas! what ails poor Geraldine? 

Why stares she with unsettled eye ? 

Can she the bodiless dead espy? 

And why with hollow voice cries she, 210 

' Off, woman, off! this hour is mine — 

Though thou her guardian spirit be. 

Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me.' 

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side. 
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — 
Alas! said she, this ghastly ride — 
Dear lady! it hath wildered you! 
The lady wiped her moist cold brow. 
And faintly said, ^ 'Tis over now! ' 

Again the wild-flower wine she drank: 220 

Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright. 

And from the floor whereon she sank, 

The lofty lady stood upright: 

She was most beautiful to see, 

Like a lady of a far countree. 

And thus the lofty lady spake — 

' All they who live in the upper sky, 

Do love you, holy Christabel! 

And you love them, and for their sake 

And for the good which me bef el, 230 

Even I in my degree will try, 

Fair maiden, to requite you well. 

But now unrobe yourself; for I 

Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.' 

Quoth Christabel, so let it be! 
And as the lady bade, did she. 
Her gentle limbs did she undress, 
And lay down in her loveliness. 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 93 

But through her brain of weal and woe 

So many thoughts moved to and fro, 240 

That vain it were her lids to close; 

So half-way from the bed she rose. 

And on her elbow did recline 

To look at the lady Geraldine. 

Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, 

And slowly rolled her eyes around; 

Then drawing in her breath aloud. 

Like one that shuddered, she unbound 

The cincture from beneath her breast: 

Her silken robe, and inner vest, 250 

Dropt to her feet, and full in view. 

Behold! her bosom and half her side — 

A sight to dream of, not to tell! 

shield her! shield sweet Christabel! 

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs: 

Ah! what a stricken look was hers! 

Deep from within she seems half-way 

To lift some weight with sick assay. 

And eyes the maid and seeks delay; 

Then suddenly, as one defied, 260 

Collects herself in scorn and pride. 

And lay down by the Maiden's side! — 

And in her arms the maid she took. 

Ah well-a-day! 
And with low voice and doleful look 
These words did say: 

' In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell. 
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel! 
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow 
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow; 270 
But vainly thou warrest. 

For this is alone in 



94 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

Thy power to declare. 

That in the dim forest 
Thou heard'st a low moaning, 
And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair: 
And didst bring her home with thee in love 

and in charity, 
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.' 



THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE FIRST. 

It was a lovely sight to see 

The lady Christabel, when she 28o 

Was praying at the old oak-tree. 

Amid the jagged shadows 

Of mossy leafless boughs, 

Kneeling in the moonlight, 

To make her gentle vows; 
Her slender palms together prest. 
Heaving sometimes on her breast; 
Her face resigned to bliss or bale — 
Her face, oh call it fair not pale, 
And both blue eyes more bright than clear, 290 

Each about to have a tear. 

With open eyes (ah woe is me!) 

Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, 

Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis. 

Dreaming that alone, which is — 

sorrow and shame! Can this be she. 

The lady, who knelt at the old oak-tree? 

And lo! the worker of these harms. 

That holds the maiden in her arms, 

Seems to slumber still and mild, 300 

As a mother with her child. 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 95 

A star hath set, a star hath risen, 

Geraldine! since arms of thine 

Have been the lovely lady's prison. 

Geraldine! one hour was thine — 

Thou'st had thy will! By tairn and rill. 

The night-birds all that hour were still. 

But now they are jubilant anew, 

From cliff and tower, tu — whoo! tu — whoo! 

Tu — whoo! tu — whoo! from wood and fell! 3io 

And see! the lady Christabel 
Gathers herself from out her trance; 
Her limbs relax, her countenance 
Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids 
Close o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds — 
Large tears that leave the lashes bright! 
And oft the while she seems to smile 
As infants at a sudden light! 

Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, 

Like a youthful hermitess, 320 

Beauteous in a wilderness. 

Who, praying always, prays in sleep. 

And, if she move unquietly. 

Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free. 

Comes back and tingles in her feet. 

No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. 

What if her guardian spirit 'twere. 

What if she knew her mother near? 

But this she knows, in joys and woes, 

That saints will aid if men will call: 330 

For the blue sky bends over all! 



96 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 



FRANCE: AN ODE. 



Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause/ 

Whose pathless march no mortal may controul! 

Ye Ocean- Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll, 
Yield homage only to eternal laws! 
Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds' singing, 

Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined. 
Save when your own imperious branches swinging, 

Have made a solemn music of the wind! 
Where, liked a man beloved of God, 
Through glooms, which never woodman trod, lo 

How oft, pursuing fancies holy. 
My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound. 

Inspired, beyond the guess of folly. 
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound! 
ye loud Waves! and ye Forests high! 

And ye Clouds that far above me soared! 
Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky! 

Yea, every thing that is and will be free! 

Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be. 

With what deep worship I have still adored 20 

The spirit of divinest Liberty. 

II. 

When France in wrath her giant-limb? upreared. 
And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea, 



_ 1 The more billowy the metrical waves the better enited they are to render the emo- 
tions expressed by fhe ode, as the reader will see by refemns: to Coleridse's " Ode 
to France." and eivinir special attention to the first stanza— to the way in which the 
first metrical wave, after it had gently fallen at the end of the first quatrain, leaps up 
again on the double rhrmes (which are expressly introduced for this effect) and goes 
bounding on. billow after billow, to the end of the stanza. T. Watts, " Encyclo- 
pedia Britannica," Vol. XIX., p. 272. 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 97 

Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free. 
Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared! 
With what a joy my lofty gratiilation 

Unawed 1 sang, amid a slavish band: 
And when to w^helm the disenchanted nation. 

Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, 

The Monarclis marched in evil day, 30 

And Britain joined the dire array; 

Though dear her shores and circling ocean. 
Though many friendships, many youthful loves 

Had swoln the patriot emotion 
And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves; 
Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat 

To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance. 
And shame too long delayed and vain retreat! 
For ne'er, Liberty! with partial aim 
I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame; 40 

But blessed the paeans of delivered France, 
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name.^ 



III. 

' And what,^ I said, ' though Blasphemy's loud scream 
With that sweet music of deliverance strove! 
Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove 

A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream! 
Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled, 

The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light! ' 

And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled. 

The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright; so 
When France her front deep-scarred and gory 
Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory; 
When, insupportably advancing, 

1 Cf. " Ode on the Departing Tear," 1796. 



98 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

Her arm made mockery of the warrior's ramp; 
While timid looks of fury glancing, 

Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp. 
Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore; 

Then I reproached my fears that would not flee; 
^And soon/ I said, ^ shall Wisdom teach her lore 
In the low huts of them that toil and groan! eo 

And, conquering by her happiness alone. 

Shall France compel the nations to be free, 
Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their own.' 

IV. 

Forgive me. Freedom! forgive those dreams! 

I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, 

From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent — ^ 
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams! 

Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished, 
And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows 

With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished 70 
One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes! 

To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt, 

Where Peace her jealous home had built; 
A patriot-race to disinherit 
Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear; 

And with inexpiable spirit 
To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer — 
France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind. 

And patriot only in pernicious toils! 
Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind? 80 

To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway, 
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey; 
To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils 

From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray? 

1 This ode was inspired by the French invasion of Switzerland. 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 99 



The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 
Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game 
They burst their manacles and wear the name 



Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain! ^ , '. 

Liberty! with profitless endeavour j 
Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; 9o 

But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever 

Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. ; 

Alike from all, howe'er they praise. thee, ] 

(Nor prayer nor boastful name delays thee) ] 

Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, -^ 

And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves, ! 

Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, . 

The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves! \ 

And there I felt thee! — on that sea-clilf's verge, \ 

Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above, lo'o 
Had made one murmur with the distant surge! 
Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare. 

And shot my being through earth, sea, and air, j 

Possessing all things with intensest love, 1 

Liberty! my spirit felt thee there. I 

February, 1798.] 3 



FROST AT MIDNIGHT. i 

! 

The Frost performs its secret ministry, j 

Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry j 

Came loud — and hark, again! loud as before. J 

The inmates of my cottage, all at rest. 

Have left me to that solitude, which suits j 

Abstruser musings: save that at my side j 

] 
j 

i 



100 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 

^Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs 

And vexes meditation with its strange 

And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, lo 

This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood, 

With all the numberless goings-on of life. 

Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame 

Lies on my low burnt fire, and quivers not; 

Only that film, which fluttered on the grate. 

Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 

Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature 

Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, 

Making it a companionable form. 

Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit 20 

By its own moods interprets, every where 

Echo or mirror seeking of itself 

And makes a toy of Thought. 

But, 0! how oft, 
How oft, at school, with most believing mind, 
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars. 
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft 
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower. 
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, so 

So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me 
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear 
Most like articulate sounds of things to come! 
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt. 
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams! 
And so I brooded all the following morn. 
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book: 
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 101 

A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 4o 

For still I hoped to see the strcmger's face, 
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, 
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike! 



Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side. 
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 
Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
And momentary pauses of the thought! 
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart 
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee. 
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, 50 

And in far other scenes! For I was reared 
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, 
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. 
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze 
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds. 
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear 
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
Of that eternal language, which thy God 60 

Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
Himself in all, and all things in himself. 
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould 
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee. 
Whether the summer clothe the general earth 
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
Of mossy apple-tree, w^hile the nigh thatch 
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall ^o 
Heard only in the trances of the blast. 



102 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

Or if the secret ministry of frost 
Shall hang them up in silent icicles. 
Quietly shining in the quiet Moon. 

February, 1798.] 

LOVE. 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights. 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame. 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour, 
When midway on the mount I lay, 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The Moonshine, stealing o'er the scene. 
Had blended with the lights of eve; lo 

And she was there, my hope, my joy. 
My own dear Genevieve! 

She leant against the armed man. 
The statue of the armed knight; 
She stood and listened to my lay. 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 

The songs that make her grieve. «<> 

I played a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 103 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes and modest grace; 
For well she knew I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand; so 

And that for ten long years he wooed 
The Lady of the Land. 

I told her how he pined: and, ah! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace; 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 

Too fondly on her face ! 4o 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night; 

That sometimes from the savage den. 
And sometimes from the darksome shade. 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade. 

There came and looked him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright; so 

And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight! 

And that unknowing what he did. 
He leaped amid a murderous band, 



104 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

And saved from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Land! 

And how she wept, and clasped his knees; 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain; — eo 

And that she nursed him in a cave; 
And how his madness went away, 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay. 

His dying words — But when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity! 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; to 

The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued. 
Subdued and cherished long! 

She wept with pity and delight. 

She blushed with love, and virgin -shame; 

And like the murmur of a dream, 

I heard her breathe my name. so 

Her bosom heaved — she stepped aside, 
As conscious of my look she stepped — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
She fled to me and wept. 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 105 

She half enclosed me with her arms, 
She pressed me with a meek embrace; 
And bending back her head, looked up, 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear, 
And partly 'twas a bashful art, 90 

That I might rather feel, than see. 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous Bride. 



1798-1799.J 



DEJECTION: AX ODE.^ 

WRITTEN" APRIL 4, 1802. 

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, 
"With the old Moon in her arms ; 
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear ! 
We shall have a deadly storm, 

" Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence. 

T. 

Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made 
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence 

Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade 



» Originally dedicated to Wordsworth, but afterward altered to efface any marks 
of a personal character. When first published "William" was changed to "Ed- 
mund," and before 1817. when it was printed in " Sibylline Leaves," an estrangement 
between the two friends caused still further changes, besides the insertion of " Lady " 
in place of " Edmund." 



106 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, 

Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes 
Upon the strings of this ^olian lute, 
Which better far were mute. 
For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! 
And overspread with phantom light, lo 

(With swimming phantom light o'erspread 
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) 

I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling 
The coming on of rain and squally blast. 

And oh! that even now the gust were swelling. 
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! 

Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, 
And sent my soul abroad, 

Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give. 

Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live! 20 



II. 

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, 

A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, 

Which finds no natural outlet, no relief. 
In word, or sigh, or tear — 
Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, 
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd. 

All this long eve, so balmy and serene. 
Have I been gazing on the western sky, 

And its peculiar tint of yellow green: 
And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye! so 

And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars. 
That give away their motion to the stars; 
Those stars, that glide behind them or between, 
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen: 
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew 
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 107 

I see them all so excellently fair, 

I see, not feel how beautiful they are! 



III. 

My genial spirits fail; 

And what can these avail 40 

To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? 

It were a vain endeavour, 

Though I should gaze for ever 
On that green light that lingers in the west: 
I may not hope from outward forms to win 
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. 



IV. 

Lady! we receive but what we give, 

And in our life alone does nature live: 

Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! 

And would we aught behold, of higher worth, so 
Than that inanimate cold world allowed 
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd. 

Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth, 
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 

Enveloping the Earth — 
And from the soul itself must there be sent 

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element! 



V. 

pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me 
What this strong music in the soul may be! 
What, and wherein it doth exist. 
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist. 



108 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

This beautiful and beauty-making power. 

Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, 
Save to the pure, and in tlieir purest hour. 
Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, 
Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power. 
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, 

A new Earth and new Heaven, 
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud — to 

Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud — 

We in ourselves rejoice! 
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight. 

All melodies the echoes of that voice. 
All colours a suffusion from that light. 



VI. 

There was a time when, though my path was rough, 

This joy within me dallied with distress, 
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 

Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: 
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, so 

And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. 
But now afflictions bow me down to earth: 
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth; 

But oh! each visitation 
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, 

My shaping spirit of Imagination. 
For not to think of what I needs must feel. 

But to be still and patient, all I can; 
And haply by abstruse research to steal 

From my own nature all the natural man — so 

This was my sole resource, my only plan; 
Tillthat which suits a part infects the whole, 
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. 



SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 109 \ 



VII. 

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, 

Reality's dark dream! 
I turn from you, and listen to the wind. 
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream 
Of agony by torture lengthened out 
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without, 

Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree, loo 

Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb. 
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, 
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee. 
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, 
Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, 
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song. 
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. 

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! 
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold! 

What tell'st thou now about ? no 

'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, 
With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds — 
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold! 
But, hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! 

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd. 
With groans, and tremulous shudderings— all is over- 
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! 
A tale of less aifright. 
And tempered with delight. 
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 120 

'Tis of a little child 
Upon a lonesome wild,^ 



' Otway, of course, is only a change from Wordsworth. " Lucy Gray" had just 
been printed when Coleridge wrote almost these same words in a letter to Poole. 
See Campbell's edition of Coleridge, p. 628. 



110 SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE 

Not far from home, but she hath lost her way: 

And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, 

And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. 



YIII. 

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: 
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! 
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing, 

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth. 
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, i3o 

Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth! 
With light heart may she rise. 
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, 

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice; 
To her may all things live, from pole to pole. 
Their life the eddying of her living soul! 

simple spirit, guided from above, 
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice, 
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice! 




SHELLEY AS A CHILD. 




^ 




\ 



^ 




SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 



HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. 



The awful shadow of some unseen Power 
Floats tho' unseen among us, — visiting 
This various world with as inconstant wing 
As summer winds that creep from flower to flower, — 
Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain shower, 

It visits with inconstant glance 

Each human heart and countenance; 
Like hues and harmonies of evening, — 

Like clouds in starlight widely spread, — 

Like memory of music fled, — 

Like aught that for its grace may be 
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 

II. 

Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate 

With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon 
Of human thought or form, — where art thou gone? 
Why dost thou pass away, and leave our state. 
This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate? 
Ask why the sunlight not for ever 
Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river. 
Why aught should fail and fade that once is shown, 

111 



112 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 

Why fear and dream and death and birth 
Cast on the daylight of this earth 
Such gloom, — why man has such a scope 
For love and hate, despondency and hope ? 



III. 

No voice from some sublimer world hath ever 
To sage or poet these responses given — 
Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost, and Heaven, 
Kemain the records of their vain endeavour. 
Frail spells — whose uttered charm might not avail to sever, 

From all we hear and all we see. 

Doubt, chance and mutability. 
Thy light alone — like mist o'er mountains driven. 

Or music by the night wind sent. 

Thro' strings of some still instrument. 

Or moonlight on a midnight stream. 
Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream. 



IV. 

Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds depart 
And come, for some uncertain moments lent. 
Man were immortal, and omnipotent. 

Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art. 

Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his heart. 
Thou messenger of sympathies, 
That wax and wane in lovers' eyes — 

Thou — that to human thought art nourishment. 
Like darkness to a dying flame! 
Depart not as thy shadow came. 
Depart not — lest the grave should be, 

Like life and fear, a dark reality. 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 113 



While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped 
Thro' many a listening chamber, cave and ruin, 
And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing 
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead. 
I called on poisonous names with which our youth is fed, 

I was not heard — I saw them not — 

When musing deeply on the lot 
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing 

All vital things that wake to bring 

News of birds and blossoming, — 

Sudden, thy shadow fell on me; 
I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstasy! 

VI. 

I vowed that I would dedicate my powers 
To thee and thine — have I not kept the vow? 
With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now 
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours 
Each from his voiceless grave: they have in visioned bowers 

Of studious zeal or love's delight 

Outwatched with me the envious night — 
They know that never joy illumed my brow 

Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst free 

This world from its dark slavery, 

That thou — awful Loveliness, 
Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot express. 

VII. 

The day becomes more solemn and serene 

When noon is past — there is a harmony 

In autumn, and a lustre in its sky. 
Which thro' the summer is not heard or seen, 
8 



114 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 

As if it could not be, as if it had not been! 

Thus let thy power, which like the truth 

Of nature on my passive youth 
Descended, to my onward life supply 

Its calm — to one who worships thee, 

And every form containing thee. 

Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind 
To fear himself, and love all human kind. 

1816.] 

STANZAS. 

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES. 



The sun is warm, the sky is clear. 

The waves are dancing fast and bright, 

Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
The purple moon's transparent might. 
The breath of the moist earth is light. 

Around its unexpanded buds; 
Like many a voice of one delight. 

The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, 
The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. 

II. 

I see the Deep's untrampled floor 

With green and purple seaweeds strown; 
I see the waves upon the shore, 

Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown: 

I sit upon the sands alone, 
The lightning of the noon-tide ocean 

Is flashing round me, and a tone 
Arises from its measured motion, 
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 115 



III. ] 

Alas! I have nor hope nor health, i 

Nor peace within nor calm around, ] 

Nor that content surpassing wealth ^ 

The sage in meditation found, ] 

And walked with inward glory crowned — ) 

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. i 
Others I see whom these surround — 

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; — 

To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. | 

IV. 1 

Yet now despair itself is mild, '. 

Even as the winds and waters are; 
I could lie down like a tired child. 

And weep away the life of care ' 

Which I have borne and yet must bear, 
Till death like sleep might steal on me, 

And I might feel in the warm air ■ 

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea i 

Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. i 

i 

V. 

Some might lament that I were cold, ; 

As I, when this sweet day is gone, i 

Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, j 

Insults with this untimely moan; \ 

They might lament — for I am one | 

Whom men love not, — and yet regret, I 

Unlike this day, which, when the sun ] 

Shall on its stainless glory set, | 

Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. j 

1818.] j 

\ 

I 
i 



116 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 



ENGLAXD IN 1819. 

An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king, — 
Princes, the dregs of their dnll race, who flow 
Throngh public scorn, — mud from a muddy spring,- 
Eulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know. 
But leech-like to their fainting country cling, 
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow, — 
A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field, — 
An army, which liberticide and prey 
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield 
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay; 
Eeligion Christless, Godless — a book sealed; 
A Senate, — Time's worst statute unrepealed, — 
Are graves, from which a glorious Phantom may 
Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.^ 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND.^ 



0, wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red. 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: 0, thou, 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 



1 That this fierce Pcoiirsrinsr does not represent a passing mood or merely personal 
feeling, is evidenced by such poems as "The Mask of Anarchy," "Swellfoot the 
Tyrant," Bjrrons " Irish Avatar," and many passages in Byron's longer poems. 

2 Composed in the wood near Florence, after a tempestuous day in the autumn. 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 117 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
With living hues and odours plain and hill: 

Wild Spirit, which art moving every where; 
Destroyer and preserver; hear, 0, hear! 

II. 

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion. 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. 
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce Ma?nad, even from the dim verge 

Of the horizon to the zenith's height, 

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre. 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: 0, hear! 



III. 



Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams. 



118 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day. 

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou 

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear, 
And tremble and despoil themselves: 0, hear! 



IV. 



If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than thou, 0, uncontrollable! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven. 

As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 

Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! 
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! 

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed 
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 119 



V. 



Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: 
What if my leaves are falling like its own! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, 
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! 
And, by the incantation of this verse. 

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! 
Be through my lips to unawakened earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy! 0, wind, 

If W^inter comes, can Spring be far behind? 

1819.] 



LYEICS FEOM PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 

SONG OF SPIRITS. 

To the deep, to the deep, 

Down, down! 
Through the shade of sleep. 
Through the cloudy strife 
Of Death and of Life; 
Through the veil and the bar 
Of things which seem and are, 
Even to the steps of the remotest throne, 

Down, down! 



120 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 

While the sound whirls around, lo 

Down, down! 
As the fawn draws the hound, 
As the lightning the vapour. 
As a weak moth the taper; 
Death, desj^air; love, sorrow; 
Time, both; to-day, to-morrow; 
As steel obeys the spirit of the stone, 

Down, down! 

Through the grey, void abysm, 

Down, down! 20 

Where the air is no prism. 
And the moon and stars are not, 
And the cavern-crags wear not 
The radiance of Heaven, 
Nor the gloom to Earth given, 
Where there is one pervading, one alone, 

Down, down! 

In the depth of the deep 

Down, down! 
Like veiled lightning asleep, so 

Like the spark nursed in embers. 
The last look Love remembers. 
Like a diamond, which shines 
On the dark wealth of mines, 
A spell is treasured but for thee alone, 

Down, down! 

We have bound thee, we guide thee; 

Down, down! 
With the bright form beside thee; 
Resist not the weakness, 40 

Such strength is in meekness 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 121 

That the Eternal, the Immortal, 
Must unloose through life's portal 
The snake-like Doom coiled underneath his throne 
By that alone. 
II iii. 54—98. 

SPIRIT. 

My coursers are fed with the lightning, 
They drink of the whirlwind's stream, • 

And when the red morning is bright'ning 
They bathe in the fresh sunbeam; 
They have strength for their swiftness I deem, 

Then ascend with me, daughter of Ocean. 

I desire: and their speed makes night kindle; 
I fear: they outstrip the Typhoon; 

Ere the cloud piled on Atlas can dwindle 

We encircle the earth and the moon: lo 

We shall rest from long labours at noon: 

Then ascend with me, daughter of Ocean. 

On the brink of the night and the morning 
My coursers are wont to respire; 

But the Earth has just whispered a warning 
That their flight must be swifter than fire: 
They shall drink the hot speed of desire! 

n. iv. 163—179. 

HYMN" TO ASIA. 

Life of Life! thy lips enkindle 

With their love the breath between them; 

And thy smiles before they dwindle 
Make the cold air fire; then screen them 

In those looks, where whoso gazes 

Faints, entangled in their mazes. ^ 



122 SELECTIONS PROM SHELLEY 

Child of Light! thy limbs are burning 
Thro' the vest which seems to hide them; 

As the radiant lines of morning 

Thro' the clouds ere they divide them; lo 

And this atmosphere divinest 

Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. 

Fair are others; none beholds thee, 
But thy voice sounds low and tender 

Like the fairest, for it folds thee 

From the sight, that liquid splendour, 

And all feel, yet see thee never, 

As I feel now, lost for ever! 

Lamp of Earth! where'er thou movest 

Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, 20 

And the souls of whom thou lovest 

Walk upon the winds with lightness. 
Till they fail, as I am failing, 
Dizzy, lost, yet unbe wailing! 

II. y. 50—73. 
1819.] 



THE CLOUD. 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. 

From the seas and the streams; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noon-day dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 



SELECTIONS PROM SHELLEY 123 

I wield the flail of the lashing hail. 

And whiten the green plains under, lo 

And then again I dissolve it in rain. 

And laugli as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below. 

And their great pines groan aghast; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers. 

Lightning my pilot sits. 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder. 

It struggles and howls at fits; 20 

Over earth and ocean with gentle motion. 

This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. 

The Spirit he loves remains; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile. 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. so 

The sanguine sunrise, with its meteor eyes. 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack. 

When the morning star shines dead. 
As on the jag of a mountain crag, 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath. 

Its ardours of rest and of love, 40 



124 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 

And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
From the depth of heaven above. 

With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 
As still as a brooding dove. 



That orbed maiden, with white fire laden. 

Whom mortals call the moon, 
Glides glimmering" o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 50 

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof. 

The stars peep behind her and peer; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; eo 

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. 

Over a torrent sea. 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof. 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, 

Is the million-coloured bow; ^0 

The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove. 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 125 

I am the daughter of earth and water. 

And the nursHng of the sky; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain, 

The pavihon of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams, 

Build up the blue dome of air, so 

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb. 



I arise and unbuild it again. 



1820.] 



TO A SKYLARK. 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 

Bird thou never wert. 
That from heaven, or near it, 
Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher 

From tlie earth thou springest 

Like a cloud of fire; 

The blue deep thou wingest. 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. lo 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun, 
O'er which clouds are brightening, 

Thou dost float and run; 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 



126 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight; 
Like a star of heaven, 

In the broad day-light 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, 2<^ 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear. 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud. 
As, when night is bare. 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed, so 

What thou art we know not; 

What is most like thee? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to see, 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought. 
Singing hymns unbidden, 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: ^ 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower. 
Soothing her love-laden 

Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 127 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue [so 

Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves, 
By warm winds deflowered, 
Till the scent it gives 
flakes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged 
thieves: 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Eain-awakened flowers, 
All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. eo 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine: 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus Hymeneal, 

Or triumphal chaunt, 
Matched with thine would be all 
But an empty vaunt, 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. to 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains? 
What shapes of sky or plain? 
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 



128 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be: 
Shadow of annoyance 

!N"ever came near thee: 
Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. so 

Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 

Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 

We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not: 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 90 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear; 
If we were things born 

Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound. 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found. 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! loo 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 

From my lips woidd flow. 
The world shpuld listen then, as I am listening now. 

Leghorn, 1820.] 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 129 



ODE TO LIBERTY. 

Yet, Freedom, yet thy banner torn but flying, 
Streams like a thunder storm against the wind. 

Byron. 



A glorious people vibrated again 

The lightning of the nations: Liberty 
From heart to heart, from tower to tower, o'er Spain, 

Scattering contagious fire into the sky, 
Gleamed. My soul spurned the chains of its dismay, 
And, in the rapid plumes of song. 
Clothed itself, sublime and strong; 
As a young eagle soars the morning clouds among. 
Hovering in verse o'er its acclistomed prey; 

Till from its station in the heaven of fame 
The Spirit's whirlwind rapt it, and the ray 
Of the remotest sphere of living flame 
Which paves the void was from behind it flung. 
As foam from a ship's swiftness, when there came 
A voice out of the deep: I will record the same. 



n. 

The Sun and the serenest ^loon sprang forth: 

The burning stars of the abyss were hurled 
Into the depths of heaven. The dcPdal earth, 

That island in the ocean of the world, 
Hung in its cloud of all-sustaining air: 
But this divinest universe 
Was yet a chaos and a curse. 
For thou wert not: but power from worst producing worse. 
The spirit of the beasts was kindled there, 
9 



130 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 

And of the birds, and of the watery forms, 
And there was war among them, and despair 
Within them, raging without truce or terms: 
The bosom of their violated nurse 

Groaned, for beasts warred on beasts, and worms on 

worms. 
And men on men; each heart was as a hell of storms. 



III. 

Man, the imperial shape, then multiplied 

His generations under the pavilion 
Of the Sun's throne: palace and pyramid. 

Temple and prison, to many a swarming million. 
Were, as to mountain wolves their ragged caves. 
This human living multitude 
Was savage, cunning, blind, and rude, 
For thou wert not; but o'er the populous solitude, 
Like one fierce cloud over a waste of waves 

Hung Tyranny; beneath, sate deified 
The sister-pest, congregator of slaves; 
Into the shadow of her pinions wide 
Anarchs and priests who feed on gold and blood, 
Till with the stain their inmost souls are dyed, 
Drove the astonished herds of men from every side. 

IV. 

The nodding promontories, and blue isles. 

And cloud-like mountains, and dividuous waves 
Of Greece, basked glorious in the open smiles 

Of favouring heaven: from their enchanted caves 
Prophetic echoes flung dim melody. 
On the unapprehensive wild 
The vine, the corn, the olive mild. 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 131 

Grew savage yet, to human use unreconciled; 
And, like the unfolded flowers beneath the sea, 

Like the man's thought dark in the infant's brain, 
Like aught that is which wraps what is to be. 

Art's deathless dreams lay veiled by many a vein 
Of Parian stone; and yet a speechless child. 
Verse murmured, and Philosophy did strain 
Her lidless eyes for thee; when o'er the yEgean main 



Athens arose: a city such as vision 

Builds from the purple crags and silver towers j 

Of battlemented cloud, as in derision j 

Of kingliest masonry: the ocean floors 1 

Pave it; the evening sky pavilions it; I 

Its portals are inhabited ' 

By thunder-zoned winds, each head j 

Within its cloudy wings with sun fire garlanded, I 

A divine work! x\thens diviner yet 

Gleamed with its crest of columns, on the will 
Of man, as on a mount of diamond, set; ^ 
For thou wert, and thine all-creative skill 
Peopled with forms that mock the eternal dead 
In marble immortality, that hill 
Which was thine earliest throne and latest oracle. 

VI. 

Within the surface of Time's fleeting river 

Its wrinkled image lies, as then it lay 
Immovably unquiet, and for ever 

It trembles, but it cannot pass away! 
The voices of thy bards and sages thunder 
With an earth-awakening blast 
Through the caverns of the past; 



132 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 

Eeligion veils her eyes; Oppression shrinks aghast: 
A winged sound of joy, and love, and wonder. 
Which soars where Expectation never flew, 
Eending the veil of space and time asunder! 

One ocean feeds the clouds, and streams, and dew; 
One sun illumines heaven; one spirit vast 
With life and love makes chaos ever new, 
As Athens doth the world with thy delight renew. 

VII. 

Then Rome was, and from thy deep bosom fairest. 

Like a wolf-cub from a Cadm^an Ma?nad,^ 
She drew the milk of greatness, though thy dearest 

From that Elysian food was yet un weaned; 
And many a deed of terrible uprightness 
By thy sweet love was sanctified; 
And in thy smile, and by thy side. 
Saintly Camillus lived, and firm Atilius died. 
But when tears stained thy robe of vestal whiteness. 

And gold profaned thy capitolian throne. 
Thou didst desert, with spirit-winged lightness. 
The senate of the tyrants: they sunk prone 
Slaves of one tyrant: Palatinus sighed 
Faint echoes of Ionian song; that tone 
Thou didst delay to hear, lamenting to disown. 

VIII. 

From what Hyrcanian glen or frozen hill. 

Or piny promontory of the Arctic main. 
Or utmost islet inaccessible. 

Didst thou lament the ruin of thy reign. 



1 Unless one is familiar with classical mythology and history, one should r< 
Shelley with a classical dictionary at his elbow. 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 133 

Teaching the woods and waves, and desert rocks, 
And every Xaiad's ice-cold urn, 
To talk in echoes sad and stern, 
Of that sublimest lore which man had dared unlearn? 
For neither didst thou watch the wizard flocks 

Of the Scald's dreams, nor haunt the Druid's sleep. 
What if the tears rained through thy shattered locks 
Were quickly dried? for thou didst groan, not weep. 
When from its sea of death to kill and burn, 
The Galilean serpent forth did creep, 
And made thy world an undistinguishable heap. 

IX. 

A thousand years the Earth cried, Where art thou? 

And then the shadow of thy coming fell 
On Saxon Alfred's olivQ-cinctured brow: 

And many a warrior-peopled citadel. 
Like rocks which fire lifts out of the flat deep, 
Arose in sacred Italy, 
Frowning o'er the tempestuous sea 
Of kings, and priests, and slaves, in tower-crowned majesty; 
That multitudinous anarchy did sweep. 

And burst around their walls, like idle foam. 
Whilst from the human spirit's deepest deep 
• Strange melody with love and awe struck dumb 
Dissonant arms; and Art, which cannot die, 
With divine wand traced on our earthly home 
Fit imagery to pave heaven's everlasting dome. 

X. 

Thou huntress swifter than the Moon! thou terror 
Of the world's wolves! thou bearer of the quiver, 

Whose sun-like shafts pierce tempest-winged Error, 
As light may pierce the clouds when they dissever 



134 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 

In the calm regions of the orient day! 

Luther caught thy wakening glance, 
Like lightning, from his leaden lance 
Reflected, it dissolved the visions of the trance 
In which, as in a tomb, the nations lay; 

And England's prophets hailed thee as their queen, 
In songs whose music cannot pass away. 
Though it must flow for ever; not unseen 
Before the spirit-sighted countenance 

Of Milton didst thou pass, from the sad scene 
Beyond whose night he saw, with a dejected mien. 

XI. 

The eager hours and unreluctant years 

As on a dawn-illumined mountain stood, 
Trampling to silence their loud ho])cs and fears, 

Darkening each other with their multitude, 
And cried aloud, Liberty! Indignation 
Answered Pity from her cave; 
Death grew pale within the grave. 
And Desolation howled to the destroyer, Save! 
When, like heaven's sun girt by the exhalation 

Of its own glorious light, thou didst arise. 
Chasing thy foes from nation unto nation 
Like shadows: as if day had cloven the skies 
At dreaming midnight o'er the western wave. 
Men started, staggering with a glad surprise. 
Under the lightnings of thine unfamiliar eyes. 

XII. 

Thou heaven of earth! what spells could pall thee then. 

In ominous eclipse? a thousand years 
Bred from the slime of deep oppression's den. 

Dyed all thy liquid light with blood and tears, 



SELECTIONS PROM SHELLEY 135 

Till thy sweet stars could weep the stain away; 
How like Bacchanals of blood 
Koimd France, the ghastly vintage, stood 
Destruction's sceptred slaves, and Folly's mitred brood! 
When one, like them, but mightier far than they. 

The Anarch of thine own bewildered powers 
Kose: armies mingled in obscure array. 

Like clouds with clouds, darkening the sacred bowers 
Of serene heaven. He, by the past pursued. 

Rests with those dead, but unforgotten hours. 
Whose ghosts scare victor kings in their ancestral towers. 

XIII. 

England yet sleeps: was she not called of old? 

Spain calls her now, as with its thrilling thunder 
Vesuvius wakens iEtna, and the cold 

Snow-crags by its reply are cloven in sunder: 
O'er the lit waves every ^olian isle 
From Pithecusa to Pelorus 
Howls, and leaps, and glares in chorus: 
They cry. Be dim; ye lamps of heaven suspended o'er us. 
Her chains are threads of gold, she need but smile 

And they dissolve; but Spain's were links of steel, 
Till bit to dust by virtue's keenest file. 
Twins of a single destiny! appeal 
To the eternal years enthroned before us. 
In the dim West; impress us from a seal. 
All ye have thought and done! Time cannot dare conceal. 

XIV. 

Tomb of Arminius! render up thy dead 

Till, like a standard from a watch-tower's staff, 

His soul may stream over the tyrant's head; 
Thy victory shall be his epitaph, 



136 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 

^Yild Bacchanal of truth's mysterious wine, 
King-deluded Germany, 
His dead spirit lives in thee. 
Why do we fear or hope? thou art already free! 
And thou, lost Paradise of this divine 

And glorious world! thou flowery wilderness! 
Thou island of eternity! 'thou shrine 

Where desolation clothed with loveliness, 
Worships the thing thou wert! Italy, 
Gather thy blood into thy heart; repress 
The beasts who make their dens thy sacred palaces. 

XV. 

0, that the free would stamp the impious name 

Of King ^ into the dust ! or write it there. 
So that this blot upon the page of fame 

Were as a serpent's path, which the light air 
Erases, and the flat sands close behind! 
Ye the oracle have heard: 
Lift the victory-flashing sword. 
And cut the snaky knots of this foul gordian word. 
Which weak itself as stubble, yet can bind 

Into a mass, irrefragably firm. 
The axes and the rods which awe mankind; 
The sound has poison in it, 'tis the sperm 
Of what makes life foul, cankerous, and abhorred; 
Disdain not thou, at thine appointed term. 
To set thine armed heel on this reluctant worm. 

XYI. 

0, that the wise from their bright minds would kindle 
Such lamps within the dome of this dim world. 



1 In Shelley's and Mrs. Shelley's editions this word is omitted, and in its place are 
four asterisks, which have given rise to much discussion. King is the word in the 
extant fragment of the rough draft.— H. B, Forman. 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 137 

That the pale name of Priest might shrink and dwindle^ 

Into the hell from which it first was hurled, 
A scoff of impious pride from fiends impure, 

Till human thoughts might kneel alone, 
Each before the judgment-throne 
Of its own aweless soul, or of the power unknown ! 
0, that the words which make the thoughts obscure 

From which they spring, as clouds of glimmering dew 
From a white lake blot heaven's blue portraiture. 
Were stript of their thin masks and various hue 
And frowns and smiles and splendours not their own. 
Till in the nakedness of false and true 
They stand before their Lord, each to receive its due. 



XVII. 

He who taught man to vanquish whatsoever 

Can be between the cradle and the grave 
Crowned him the King of Life. vain endeavour! 

If on his own high will a willing slave, 
He has enthroned the oppression and the oppressor. 
What if earth can clothe and feed 
Amplest millions at their need, 
And power in thought be as the tree within the seed? 
0, what if Art, an ardent intercessor. 

Driving on fiery wings to Nature's throne, 
Checks the great mother stooping to caress her. 
And cries: Give me, thy child, dominion 
Over all height and depth ? if Life can breed 

New wants, and wealth from those who toil and groan 
Rend of thy gifts and hers a thousandfold for one. 



1 That he did to the last regard it [the Christian religion] as by all historical evi- 
dence the invariable accomplice of tyranny— as at once the constant shield and ready 
spear of force and fraud— his latest letters show as clearly as that he did no injustice 
to " the sublime human character"' of its founder.— Swinbukne. 



138 SELECTIONS FROxM SHELLEY 



XVIII. 

Come Thou, but lead out of the inmost cave 
Of man's deep spirit, as the morning-star 
Beckons the Sun from the Eoan wave, 

Wisdom. I hear the pennons of her car 
Self-moving, like cloud charioted by flame; 
Comes she not, and come ye not, 
Eulers of eternal thought. 
To judg^ with solemn truth, life's ill-apportioned lot? 
Blind Love, and equal Justice, and the Fame 

Of what has been, the Hope of what will be ? 
0, Liberty! if such could be thy name 

Wert thou disjoined from these, or they from thee: 
If thine or theirs were treasures to be bought 
By blood or tears, have not the wise and free 
Wept tears, and blood like tears? The solemn harmony 

XIX. 

Paused, and the spirit of that mighty singing 

To its abyss was suddenly withdrawn; 
Then, as a wild swan, when sublimely winging 

Its path athwart the thunder-smoke of dawn, 
Sinks headlong through the aerial golden light 
On the heavy sounding plain, 
When the bolt has pierced its brain; 
As summer clouds dissolve, unburthened of their rain; 
As a far taper fades with fading night, 

As a brief insect dies with dying day, 
My song, its pinions disarrayed of might, 
Drooped; o'er it closed the echoes far away 
Of the great voice which did its flight sustain, 
As waves which lately paved his watery way 
Hiss round a drowner's head in their tempestuous play. 
1820.J 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 139 



AEETHUSA. 



Arethiisa arose 

From her couch of snows 

In the Acroceraunian mountains, — 
From cloud and from crag, 
With many a jag, 

Shepherding her bright fountains. 
She leapt down the rocks, 
With her rainbow locks 

Streaming among the streams; — 
Her steps paved with green 
The downward ravine 

Wliich slopes to the western gleams: 
And gliding and springing 
She went, ever singing, 

In murmurs as soft as sleep; 

The Earth seemed to love her. 
And Heaven smiled above her. 

As she lingered towards the deep. 

II. 

Then Alpheus bold, 

On his glacier cold. 
With his trident the mountains strook 

And opened a chasm 

In the rocks; — with the spasm 
All Erymanthus shook. 

And the black south wind 

It concealed behind 
The urns of the silent snow, 



14:0 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 

And earthquake and thunder 
Did rend in sunder 

The bars of the springs below: 
The beard and the hair 
Of the Eiver-god were 

Seen through the torrent's sweep. 
As he followed the light 
Of the fleet nymph's flight 

To the brink of the Dorian deep. 

III. 

" Oh, save me! Oh, guide me! 
And bid the deep hide me, 

For he grasps me now by the hair! " 
The loud Ocean heard. 
To its blue depth stirred. 

And divided at her prayer; 
And under the water 
The Earth's white daughter 

Fled like a sunny beam; 

Behind her descended 
Her billows, unblended 

With the brackish Dorian stream: — 
Like a gloomy stain 
On the emerald main 

Alpheus rushed behind, — 
As an eagle pursuing 
A dove to its ruin 

Down the streams of the cloudy wind. 

IT. 

Under the bowers 
AA^here the Ocean Powers 
Sit on their pearled thrones, 

Through the coral woods 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 141 

Of the weltering floods, 
Over heai3s of unvalued stones; 

Through the dim beams 

Which amid the streams 
Weave a net-work of coloured light; 

And under the caves, 

Where the shadowy waves 
Are as green as the forest's night: — 

Outspeeding the shark, 

And the sword-iisli dark, 
Under the ocean foam, 

And up through the rifts 

Of the mountain clifts 
They past to their Dorian home. 

V. 

And now from their fountains 

In Enna's mountains, 
Down one vale where the morning basks. 

Like friends once parted 

Grown single-hearted, 
They ply their watery tasks. 

At sunrise they leap 

From their cradles steep 
In the cave of the shelving hill; 

At noon-tide they flow 

Through the woods below 
And the meadows of Asphodel; 

And at night they sleep 

In the rocking deep 
Beneath the Ortygian shore; — 

Like spirits that lie 

In the azure sky 
When they love but live no more. 



1820.] 



142 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 



HYMN OF APOLLO. 



The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie, 
Curtained with star-inwoven tapestries, 

From the broad moonlight of the sky, 

Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes, — 

Waken me when their Mother, the grey Dawn, 

Tells them that dreams and that the moon is gone. 

II. 

Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's blue dome, 
I walk over the mountains and the waves. 

Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam; 

My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves 

Are filled with my bright presence, and the air 

Leaves the green earth to my embraces bare. 

III. 

The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I kill 

- Deceit, that loves the night and fears the day; 
All men who do or even imagine ill 

Fly me, and from the glory of my ray 
Good minds and open actions take new might, 
Until diminished by the reign of night. 

IV. 

I feed the clouds, the rainbows and the flowers 
With their 03thereal colours; the Moon's globe 

And the pure stars in their eternal bowers 
Are cinctured with my po^wer as with a robe; 

Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may shine, 

Are portions of one power, which is mine. 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY MS 



i 

I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven, | 

Then with unwilling steps I wander down ] 

Into the clouds of the Atlantic even; ! 

For grief that I depart they weep and frown: J 

What look is more delightful than the smile i 

With which I soothe them from the western isle ? 1 

\ 

VI. ' 

I am the eye with which the Universe \ 

Beholds itself and knows itself divine; ; 

All harmony of instrument or verse, 
All prophecy, all medicine are mine. 

All light of art or nature; — to my song, : 

Victory and praise in their own right belong. 



1820.] 



HYMN OF PAN.i 



From the forests and highlands 

We come, we come; 
From the river-girt islands. 

Where loud waves are dumb 
Listening to my sweet pipings. 
The wind in the reeds and the rushes. 

The bees on the bells of thyme. 
The birds on the myrtle bushes. 
The cicale above in the lime. 



J This and the former poem were written at the request of a friend, to be inserted 
in a drama on the subject of Midas. Apollo and Pan contended before Tmolus for 
the prize in music— Mrs. Shelley. 



144 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 

And the lizards below in the grass, 
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was 
Listening to my sw^eet pipings. 



II. 



Liquid Peneus was flowing, 

And all dark Tempe lay 
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing 
The light of the dying day. 
Speeded by my sweet pipings. 
The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns, 

And the Nymphs of the woods and waves. 
To the edge of the moist river-lawns. 

And the brink of the dewy caves. 
And all that did then attend and follow. 
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, 
With envy of my sweet pipings. 



. Ill- 

I sang of the dancing stars, 

I sang of the daedal Earth, 
And of Heaven — and the giant wars. 
And Love, and Death, and Birth, — 
And then I changed my pipings, — 
Singing how down the vale of Menalus 

I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed: 
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus! 

It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed: 
All wept, as I think both ye now would, 
If envy or age had not frozen your blood. 
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. 

1820.] 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY U5 



AUTUMX: 



A DIRGE. 



The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, 
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, 

And the year 
On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, 
Is lying. 

Come, months, come away, 

From November to May, 

In your saddest array; 

Follow the bier 

Of the dead cold year, lo 

And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. 

The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling, 
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling 

For the year; 
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone 
To his dwelling; 

Come, months, come away; 

Put on white, black, and grey; 

Let your light sisters play — 

Ye, follow the bier 20 

Of the dead cold year. 
And make her grave green with tear on tear. 

1820.] 



10 



U6 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 



DIRGE FOR THE YEAR. 



Orphan hours, the year is dead, 
Come and sigh, come and weep! 

Merry hours, smile instead. 
For the year is but asleep. 

See, it smiles as it is sleeping, 

Mocking your untimely weeping. 

II. 

As an earthquake rocks a corse 

In its coffin in the clay. 
So White Winter, that rough nurse, 

Rocks the death-cold year to-day; 
Solemn hours! wail aloud 
For your mother in her shroud. 

III. 
As the wild air stirs and sways 

The tree-swung cradle of a child, 
So the breath of these rude days 

Rocks the year: — be calm and mild, 
Trembling hours, she will arise 
With new love within her eyes. 

IV. 

January grey is here. 

Like a sexton by her grave; 

February bears the bier, 

March with grief doth howl and rave. 

And April weeps — but, 0, ye hours. 

Follow with May's fairest flowers. 

1821.] 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY U7 



SONG. 



Rarely, rarely, comest thou, 

Spirit of Delight! 
Wherefore hast thou left me now 

Many a day and night? 
Many a weary night and day 
'Tis since thou art fled away. 

II. 

How shall ever one like me 

Win thee back again? 
With the joyous and the free 

Thou wilt scofi' at pain. 
Spirit false! thou hast forgot 
All but those who need thee not. 

III. 

As a lizard with the shade 

Of a trembling leaf, 
Thou with sorrow art dismayed; 

Even the sighs of grief 
Reproach thee, that thou art not near. 
And reproach thou wilt not hear. 

IV. 

Let me set my mournful ditty 

To a merry measure. 
Thou wilt never come for pity, 

Thou wilt come for pleasure. 
Pity then will cut away 
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. 



148 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 



V. 

I love all that thon lovest, 

Spirit of Delight! 
The fresh Earth in new leaves drest 

And the starry night; 
Autumn evening, and the morn 
When the golden mists are born. 



VI. 

I love snow, and all the forms 

Of the radiant frost; 
I love waves, and winds, and storms, 

Everything almost 
Which is Nature's, and may be 
Untainted by man's misery. 

VII. 

I love tranquil solitude, 

And such society 
As is quiet, wise, and good; 

Between thee and me 
What difference? but thou dost possess 
The things I seek, not love them less. 

VIII. 

I love Love — though he has wings, 

And like light can flee, 
But above all other things. 

Spirit, I love thee — 
Thou art love and life! come, 
Make once more my heart thy home. 

1821.] 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 1*9 



TO NIGHT. 



I. 



Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, 

Spirit of Night! 
Out of the misty eastern cave, 
Where all the long and lone daylight, 
Thou wo vest dreams of joy and fear. 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 

Swift be thy flight! 

II. 

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey. 

Star-inwrought! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, 
Kiss her until she be wearied out, 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land. 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long-sought! 

III. 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sighed for thee; 
When light rode high, and the dew was gone. 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. 
And the weary Day turned to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sighed for thee. 

IV. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

Wouldst thou me ? 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 



150 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 

Murmured like a noon-tide bee, 
Shall I nestle near thy side ? 
Wouldst thou me? — and I replied, 
No, not thee! 

V. 

Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon; too soon — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved night, — 
Swift be thy approaching flight. 

Come soon, soon! 

1821.] 

TO-MORROW. 

Where art thou, beloved To-morrow? 

AVhen young and old and strong and weak. 
Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow, 

Thy sweet smiles we ever seek, — 
In thy place — ah! well-a-day! 
We find the thing we fled — To-day. 



1821.] 



WITH A GUITAR; TO JANE. 

Ariel to Miranda. — Take 

This slave of Music, for the sake 

Of him who is the slave of thee. 

And teach it all the harmony 

In which thou canst, and only thou. 

Make the delighted spirit glow. 

Till joy denies itself again. 



SELECTIONS PROM SHELLEY 151 

And, too intense, is turned to pain; 

For by permission and command 

Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, lo 

Poor Ariel sends this silent token 

Of more than ever can be spoken; 

Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who, 

From life to life, must still pursue 

Your happiness; — for thus alone 

Can Ariel ever find his own. 

From Prosperous enchanted cell. 

As the mighty verses tell, 

To the throne of Naples, he 

Lit you o'er the trackless sea, 20 

Flitting on, your prow before, 

Like a living meteor. 

When you die, the silent Moon, 

In her interlunar swoon, 

Is not sadder in her cell 

Than deserted Ariel. 

When you live again on earth, 

Like an unseen star of birth, 

Ariel guides you o'er the sea 

Of life from your nativity. so 

Many changes have been run, 

Since Ferdinand and you begun 

Your course of love, and Ariel still 

Has tracked your steps, and served your will; 

Now, in humbler, happier lot. 

This is all remembered not ; 

And now, alas! the poor sprite is 

Imprisoned, for some fault of his. 

In a body like a grave; — 

From you he only dares to crave, 4o 

For his service and his sorrow, 

A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 



152 SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 

The artist who this idol \\Toiight, 

To echo all harmonious thought, 

Felled a tree, while on the steep 

The woods were in their winter sleep. 

Rocked in that repose divine 

On the wind-swept Apennine; 

And dreaming, some of Autumn past. 

And some of Spring approaching fast, eo 

And some of April buds and showers. 

And some of songs in July bowers, 

And all of love; and so this tree, — 

that such our death may be! — 

Died in sleep, and felt no pain, 

To live in happier form again: 

From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star. 

The artist wrought this loved Guitar, 

And taught it justly to reply. 

To all who question skilfully, 60 

In language gentle as thine own; 

Whispering in enamoured tone 

Sweet oracles of woods and dells. 

And summer winds in sylvan cells; 

For it had learnt all harmonies 

Of the plains and of the skies. 

Of the forests and the mountains. 

And the many-voiced fountains; 

The clearest echoes of the hills. 

The softest notes of falling rills, 7o 

The melodies of birds and bees, 

The murmuring of summer seas. 

And pattering rain, and breathing dew. 

And airs of evening; and it knew 

That seldom-heard mysterious sound. 

Which, driven on its diurnal round, 

As it floats through boundless day. 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY 153 

Our world enkindles on its way — 

All this it knows, but will not tell 

To those who cannot question well so 

The spirit that inhabits it; 

It talks according to the wit 

Of its companions; and no more 

Is heard than has been felt before, 

By those who tempt it to betray 

These secrets of an elder day: 

But sweetly as its answers will 

Flatter hands of perfect skill, 

It keeps its highest, holiest tone 

For our beloved Jane alone. 90 



1822.J 




After a sketch by Severn. 



JOHN KEATS. 



jIoahaaj tt tRjnJ^ wt/vxjo uyiMu U^ 
At^'/a^ tjlcicl if^ ^u^ ti(P(>enu 



cou.apu "Mlua^ . (ya ^ f^ 



JOHN KEATS. 

Fac-8imlle of part of a letter to Fanny Keats, only eipter of the poet, written during his last 
illnefis, August 14, 1820. 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 



TO G. A. ^Y^ 

Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong glance. 
In what diviner moments of the day 
Art thou most lovely? — when gone far astray 

Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance, 

Or when serenely wand'ring in a trance 

Of sober thought? — or when starting away 
With careless robe to meet the morning ray 

Thou spar'st the flowers in thy mazy dance ? 

Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly, 
And so remain, because thou listenest: 

But thou to please wert nurtured so completely 
That I can never tell what mood is best. 

I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly 
Trips it before Apollo than the rest. 

December, 1816.] 

TO SOLITUDE. 

Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, 
Let it not be among the jumbled heap 
Of murky buildings; climb with me to the steep, — 

Nature's observatory — whence the dell, 



* Georgiana Augusta Wylie, afterward the wife of George Keats. 
155 



156 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 

Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, 

May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep 

'Mongst boughs pavilion'd/ where the deer's swift leap 
Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell. 
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee. 

Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, 

Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd, 
Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be 

Almost the highest bliss of human-kind. 
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. 

1816.] 



ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMEE. 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, 

x\nd many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 

Eound many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hald. - 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 

That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne; 

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: 
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 

When a new planet swims into his ken; 
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 

He star'd at the Pacific — and all his men 
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 

Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

1816.] 



^ For verb forms in ed, the custom of Keats was to write 'd when the e was silent, 
ed where Shelley ^'^•ote ed, when the e was sounded. He did not, however, consis- 
tently follow his own rule. 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 157 



ON THE GEASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. 

The poetry of earth is never dead: 

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, 
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; 

That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead 
In summer luxury, — he has never done 
With his delights; for when tired out with fun 

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 

The poetry of earth is ceasing never: 

On a lone winter evening, when the frost 
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills 

The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever. 
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, 
The Grasshopper's among the grassy hills. 

December 30, 1816.] 



DEDICATION. 

TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ.^ 

Glory and loveliness have pass'd away; 
For if we wander out in early morn. 
No wreathed incense do we see upborne 

Into the east, to meet the smiling day: 

No crowd of nymphs soft-voic'd and young, and gay, 
In woven baskets bringing ears of corn, 
Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn 

The shrine of Flora in her early May. 

1 Pedication to the first volume of poems, printed in 1817. 



158 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 

But there are left delights as high as these, 
And I shall ever bless my destiny, 

That in a time, when under pleasant trees 
Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free 

A leafy luxury, seeing I could please 

With these poor offerings, a man like thee. 



THE OPENING STANZAS OF ENDYMION.' 

A thing of beauty is a joy forever: 

Its loveliness increases; it will never 

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. 

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 

A flowery band to bind us to the earth. 

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days. 

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways lo 

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,' 

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon. 

Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon 

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils 

With the green world they live in; and clear rills 

That for themselves a cooling covert make 

'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake. 

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: 

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 20 

1 In proof of the impression made by the genius and early death of Chatterton 
upon the poets who followed, see not only the " Monody on the Death of Chatterton," 
by Coleridge, and references by Shelley and Wordsworth, but also the dedication of 
" Endymion " : " Inscribed, with every feeling of pride and regret, and with ' a bowed 
mind,' to the memory of the most English of poets except Shakspeare, Thomas 
Chatterton." 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 159 

We have imagined for the mighty dead; 
All lovely tales that we have heard or read: 
An endless fountain of immortal drink, 
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 

Nor do we merely feel these essences 
For one short hour; no, even as the trees 
That whisper round a temple become soon 
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon. 
The passion poesy, glories infinite. 

Haunt us till they become a cheering light so 

Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast. 
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast, 
They always must be with us, or we die. 

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I 
Will trace the story of Endymion. 
The very music of the name has gone 
Into my being, and each pleasant scene 
Is growing fresh before me as the green 
Of our own valle3^s: so I will begin 
Now while I cannot hear the city's din; 40 

Now while the early budders are Just new, 
And run in mazes of the youngest hue 
About old forests; while the willow trails 
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails 
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year 
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer 
My little boat, for many quiet hours. 
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. 
Many and many a verse I hope to write, 
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white, so 

Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees 
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, 
I must be near the middle of my story. 



160 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 

may no wintry season, bare and hoary. 

See it half finished: but let Autumn bold, 

With universal tinge of sober gold, 

Be all about me when I make an end. 

And now at once, adventuresome, I send 

My herald thought into a wilderness: 

There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress eo 

My uncertain path with green, that I may speed 

Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed. 

Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread 
A mighty forest; for the moist earth fed 
So plenteously all weed-hidden roots 
Into o'er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits. 
And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep, 
Where no man went; and if from shepherd's keep 
A lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens, 
Never again saw he the happy pens to 

Whither his brethren, bleating with content. 
Over the hills at every nightfall went. 
Among the shepherds, 'twas believed ever. 
That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever 
From the white flock, but pass'd unworried 
By angry wolf, or pard with prying head, 
Until it came to some unfooted plains 
Where fed the herds of Pan: aye great his gains 
Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many, 
Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny, so 

And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly 
To a wide lawn, whence one could only see 
Stems thronging all around between the swell 
Of turf and slanting branches: who could tell 
The freshness of the space of heaven above, 
Edg'd round with dark tree tops? through which a dove 
Would often beat its wings, and often too 
A little cloud would move across the blue. 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 161 



90 



Full in the middle of this pleasantness 
There stood a marble altar, with a tress 
Of flowers budded newly; and the dew 
Had taken fairy phantasies to strew 
Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve, 
And so the dawned light in pomp receive. 
For 'twas the morn: Apollo's upward fire 
Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre 
Of brightness so unsullied, that therein 
A melancholy spirit well might win 
Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine 
Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine loo 

Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun; 
The lark was lost in him; cold springs had run 
To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass; 
Man's voice was on the mountains; and the mass 
Of nature's lives and wonders puls'd tenfold, 
To feel this sun-rise and its dories old. 



1817.] 



SONNET. 

ON THE SEA. 

It keeps eternal whisperings around 

Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell 
Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell 

Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. 

Often 'tis in such gentle temper found, 
That scarcely will the very smallest shell 
Be mov'd for days from whence it sometime fell, 

When last the winds of heaven were unbound. 

Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vex'd and tir'd. 
Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea; 



162 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 

Oh ye! whose ears are dinn'd with uproar rude, 
Or fed too much with cloying melody, — 

Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood 
Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quir'd! 

August, 1817.] 

SOISTNET. 

When I have fears that I may cease to be 

Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain. 
Before high piled books, in charactry, 

Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain; 
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face. 

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance. 
And think that I may never live to trace 

Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; 
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour. 

That I shall never look upon thee more. 
Never have relish in the faery power 

Of unreflecting love; — then on the shore 
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink. 



1817.] 



FANCY. 

Ever let the Fancy roam. 

Pleasure never is at home: 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth. 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; 

Then let winged Fancy wander 

Through the thought still spread beyond her: 

Open wide the mind's cage-door, 

She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 163 

sweet Fancy! let her loose; 

Summer's joys are spoilt by use, lo 

And the enjoying of the Spring 

Fades as does its blossoming; 

Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, 

Blushing through the mist and dew, 

Cloys with tasting: What do then? 

Sit thee by the ingle, when 

The sear faggot blazes bright. 

Spirit of a winter's night; 

When the soundless earth is muffled. 

And the caked snow is shuffled 20 

From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; 

When the Night doth meet the Noon 

In a dark conspiracy 

To banish Even from her sky. 

Sit thee there, and send abroad. 

With a mind self-overaw'd. 

Fancy, high-commission'd: — send her! 

She has vassals to attend her: 

She will bring, in spite of frost. 

Beauties that the earth hath lost; so 

She will bring thee, all together. 

All delights of summer weather; 

All the buds and bells of May, 

From dewy sward or thorny spray; 

All the heaped Autumn's wealth, 

With a still, mysterious stealth: 

She will mix these pleasures up 

Like three fit wines in a cup. 

And thou shalt quaff it: — thou shalt hear 

Distant harvest-carols clear; 40 

Rustle of the reaped corn; 

Sweet birds antheming the morn: 

And, in the same moment — hark! 



164 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 

'Tis the early April lark, 

Or the rooks, with busy caw, 

Foraging for sticks and straw. 

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 

The daisy and the marigold; 

White-plum'd lilies, and the first 

Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; so 

Shaded hyacinth, alway 

Sapphire queen of the mid-May; 

And every leaf, and every flower 

Pearled with the self-same shower. 

Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 

Meagre from its celled sleep; 

And the snake all winter-thin 

Cast on sunny bank its skin; 

Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 

Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, eo 

When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 

Quiet on her mossy nest; 

Then the hurry and alarm 

When the bee-hive casts its swarm; 

Acorns ripe down-pattering, 

While the autumn breezes sing. 

Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose; 
Everything is spoilt by use : 
Where's the cheek that doth not fade. 
Too much gaz'd at? Where's the maid 7o 

Whose lip mature is ever new? 
Where's the eye, however blue, 
Doth not weary? Where's the face 
One would meet in every place? 
Where's the voice, however soft 
One would hear so very oft? 
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 



SELECTIONS PROM KEATS 165 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 

Let, then, winged Fancy find 

Thee a mistress to thy mind: so 

Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter. 

Ere the God of Torment taught her 

How to frown and how to chide; 

With a waist and with a side 

White as Hebe's, when her zone 

Slipt its golden clasp, and down 

Fell her kirtle to her feet, 

While she held the goblet sweet. 

And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 

Of the Fancy's silken leash; 90 

Quickly break her prison-string 

And such joys as these she'll bring. — 

Let the winged Fancy roam. 

Pleasure never is at home. 



1818.] 



ODE.^ 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 

Ye have left your souls on earth! 

Have ye souls in heaven too, 

Double-lived in regions new? 

Yes, and those of heaven commune 

With the spheres of sun and moon; 

With the noise of fountains wond'rous, 

And the parle of voices thund'rous; 

With the whisper of heaven's trees 

And one another, in soft ease lo 



» Written in Beaumont and Fletcher's Tragi-Comedy, " The Fair Maid of the Inn," 
and hence, ae Fonnan BUggests, addressed, not to poets in general, but to Beaumont 
and Fletcher. 



166 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 

Seated on Elysian lawns 

Brows'd by none but Dian's fawns; 

Underneath large blue-bells tented, 

Where the daisies are rose-scented. 

And the rose herself has got 

Perfume which on earth is not; 

Where the nightingale doth sing 

Not a senseless, tranced thing, 

But divine melodious truth; 

Philosophic numbers smooth; 20 

Tales and golden histories 

Of heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then 
On the earth ye live again ; 
And the souls ye left behind you 
Teach us, here, the way to find you. 
Where your other souls are joying, 
Never slumber'd, never cloying. 
Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week; so 

Of their sorrows and delights; 
Of their passions and their spites; 
Of their glory and their shame; 
What doth strengthen and what maim. 
Thus ye teach us, every day, 
Wisdom, though fled far away. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth! 
Ye have souls in heaven too. 
Double-lived in regions new! <o 



SELECTIONS PROM KEATS 167 



LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN.^ 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 

What Elysium have ye known, 

Happy field or mossy cavern. 

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 

Have ye tippled drink more fine 

Than mine host's Canary wine? 

Or are fruits of Paradise 

Sweeter than those dainty pies 

Of venison? generous food! 

Drest as though bold Robin Hood lo 

Would, with his maid Marian, 

Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's sign-board flew away, 
Nobody knew whither, till 
An astrologer's old quill 
To a sheepskin gave the story, 
Said he saw you in your glory, 
Underneath a new old-sign 

Sipping beverage divine, 20 

And pledging with contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 

Souls of Poets dead and gone. 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 



1818.] 



The meeting-place of Shakspere and the other poets of his time. 



168 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 



ODE TO A NIGHTmGALE.i 



My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. 
But being too happy in thine happiness, — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

2. 

0, for a draught of vintage! that hath been 

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth. 
Tasting of Flora and the country green. 

Dance, and Provengal song, and sunburnt mirth! 
for a beaker full of the warm South, 

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 

And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 

3. 
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 

1 Written during the depression caused by the death of Keats's brother, Tom, and 
his own illness. 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 169 

i 

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, ! 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; ] 

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow I 

And leaden-eyed despairs, : 

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, j 

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. j 

4. I 
Away! away! for I will fly to thee, ' 

Xot charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 1 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: \ 

Already with thee! tender is the night, : 
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Clustered around by all her starry Fays; 

But here there is no light, j 

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown - I 

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. j 

5. I 

i 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, | 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, : 

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet ] 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows j 

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; ] 

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; i 

Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; | 

And mid-May's eldest child. 

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, i 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. ' 

6. i 

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time ; 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, j 



170 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 

Caird liim soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 



Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 

No hungry generations tread thee down; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Euth, when, sick for home. 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 

8. 

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadow^s, over the still stream. 
Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades: 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 

Fled is that music: — Do I wake or sleep? 

May, 1819.] 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 171 



ODE ON A GKECIAN URN". 



Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, 

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape 

Of deities or mortals, or of both. 
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 

What men or gods are these ? What maidens loth ? 
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? 

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 

2. 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd. 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss. 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; 

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 



Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed 
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 

And, happy melodist, unwearied, 
For ever piping songs for ever new; 



172 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 

More happy love! more happy, happy love! 
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, 
For ever panting, and for ever young; 
All breathing human passion far above, 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 



Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 

To what green altar, mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
What little town by river or sea shore, 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. 
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 



Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden weed; 

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 

When old age shall this generation waste. 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 

" Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 

1819.] 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 173 



ODE TO PSYCHE. 

Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear. 

And pardon that thy secrets should be sung 

Even into thine own soft-conched ear: 
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 

The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes? 

1 wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, . 

And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise. 
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side 

In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof lo 

Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran 
A brooklet, scarce espy'd: 

'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, 

Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, 
They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass; 

Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; 

Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu. 
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber. 
And ready still past kisses to outnumber 

At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: so 

The winged boy I knev/; 

But who wast thou, happy, happy dove? 
His Psyche true! 

latest born and loveliest vision far 

Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! 
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star. 

Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; 
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, 
Nor altar heap'd with flowers; 



174 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 

Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan 30 

Upon the midnight hours; 
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet 

From chain-swung censer teeming; 
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat 

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 

brightest! though too late for antique vows, 
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre. 

When holy were the haunted forest houghs. 

Holy the air, the water, and the fire; 
Yet even in these days so far retir'd 40 

From happy pieties, thy lucent fans. 

Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 

1 see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir'd. 
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan 

Upon the midnight hours; 
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet 

From swinged censer teeming; 
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat 

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 50 

In some untrodden region of my mind, 
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain. 

Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: 
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees 

Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; 
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, 

The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; 
And in the midst of this wide quietness 
A rosy sanctuary will I dress 
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, 60 

With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, 
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign. 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 175 

Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: 
And there shall be for thee all soft delight 

That shadowy thought can win, 
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night. 

To let the warm Love in! 

April, 1819.] 

TO AUTUMN. 

1. 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 

Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; 

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more. 
And still more, later flowers for the bees. 
Until they think warm days will never cease, 

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. 

2. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 

Steady thy laden head across a brook; 

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, 

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 



176 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 



"Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 

Among the river sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; 
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 

September, 1819.] 

ODE ON MELANCHOLY. 



No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist 

Wolf s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; 
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd 

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine ; 
Make not your rosary of yew-berries, 

Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be 
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl 
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; 

For shade to shade will come too drowsily, 
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 

2. 

But when the melancholy fit shall fall 

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, 

That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, 
And hides the green hill in an April shroud; 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 177 

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose. 
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave. 
Or on the wealth of globed peonies; 
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, 
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, 
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. 

3. 

She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die; 

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh. 

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: 
Ay, in the very temple of Delight 

Veil'd Melancholy has lier sovran shrine. 

Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue 
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; 

His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, 
And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES.^ 



St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! 

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; 

The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, 

And silent was the flock in Avoolly fold: 

jSTumb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told 



^ January 20th. 

For a running commentary on the poem, see Leigh Hnnt's "Imagination aad 
Fancy," page 300. [Smith & Elder, 1883.] 
For variant readings, see Forman's edition of Keats. 
12 



178 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 

His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death. 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 

II. 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; 
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees. 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: 
The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, 
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries. 
He passe th by; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 

III. 

Northward he turneth through a little door. 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; 
But no — already had his deathbell rung; 
The Joys of all his life were said and sung: 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: 
Another way he went, and soon among 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. 
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. 

IV. 

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; 
And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide. 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide: . 
The level chambers, ready with their pride. 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 179 i 



Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, 
Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests, 
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their 
breasts. 

V. 

At length burst in the argent revelry, 
With plume, tiara, and all rich array, 
Numerous as shadows haunting faerily 
The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay 
Of old romance. These let us wish away, 
And turn, soul-thoughted, to one Lady there. 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day. 
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care. 
As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 



VI. 



They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of delight. 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honey'd middle of the night, 
If ceremonies due they did aright; 
As, supperless to bed they must retire, 
And couch supine their beauties, lily white; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. 



VII. 



Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: 
The music, yearning like a God in pain. 
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine, 
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 



180 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 

Pass by — she heeded not at all: in vain 
Came many a tiptoe^ amorous cavalier. 
And back retird; not cool'd by high disdain. 
But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere: 
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. 



VIII. 

She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes. 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: 
The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort, 
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,^ 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 



IX. 

So, purposing each moment to retire, 
She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors, 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
That he might gaze and worship all unseen; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things 
have been. 



» The offering to St. Agnes was two unshorn lambs ; the wool was afterwards 
carded and spun by the nuns. Cf. Stanza XIII., lines 7-9. 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 181 



X. 



He ventures in : let no buzz'd whisper tell : 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart, Love's f ev'rous citadel : 
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, 
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage: not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 

XT. 

Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came. 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame. 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland: 
He startled her; but soon she knew his face. 
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand. 
Saying, " Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; 
'' They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race ! 

XII. 

"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand; 
" He had a fever late, and in the fit 
" He cursed thee and thine, both house and land : 
" Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
" More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me! flit! 
" Flit like a ghost away." — " Ah, Gossip dear, 
"We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit, 
" And tell me how " — " Good Saints! Not here, not 
here; 
" Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." 



162 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 



XIII. 

He f ollow'd through a lowly arched way, 
Brushing the cohwebs with his lofty plume, 
And as she mutter'd " Well-a — well-a-day! " 
He found him in a little moonlight room. 
Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
" Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
" tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
" Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 
" When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 

XIV. 

" St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve— 
" Yet men will murder upon holy days: 
. " Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 
" And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
" To venture so : it fills me with amaze 
" To see thee, Porphyro! — St. Agnes' Eve! 
'^ Clod's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays 
" This very night: good angels her deceive! 
" But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve." 

XV. 

Feebly she laugh eth in the languid moon. 
While Porphyro upon her face doth look. 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book. 
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 
His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook 
Tears, at tlie tliought of those enchantments cold, 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 183 



XVI. 



Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose^, 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
Made purple riot: then doth he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start: 
" A cruel man and impious thou art : 
" Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream 
" Alone with her good angels, far apart 
" From wicked men like thee. Go, go! — I deem 
" Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." 

XVII. 

" I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 
Quoth Porphyro : " may I ne'er find grace 
" When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, 
" If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
" Or look with ruffian passion in her face: 
" Good Angela, believe me by these tears; 
" Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
" Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, 
" And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves 
and bears." 

XVIII. 

" Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? 
" A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing, 
" Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; 
" Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, 
" Were never miss'd." — Thus plaining, doth she bring 
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; 
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 



184 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 



XIX. 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 
That he might see her beauty unespied, 
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, 
While legion- d faeries pac'd the coverlet. 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met. 
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.^ 

XX. 

" It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame: 
" All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
" Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame 
" Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare, 
" For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
" On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
" Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer 
"The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed, 
" Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 

XXI. 

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd; 
The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear 
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 



1 Cf. Tennyson's "Vivian." 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 185 



XXII. i 

1 



Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, 
Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
Eose, like a missioned spirit, unaware: 
With silver taper's light, and pious care. 
She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare. 
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; 
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. 

XXIII. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: 
She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide: 
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble. 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side; 
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. 

XXIV. 

A casement high and triple-arch'd there was, 
All garlanded with carven imageries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass. 
And diamonded with panes of qnaint device. 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and 
kings. 



186 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 



XXV. 

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,^ 
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint: 
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, 
Save wings, for heaven: — Porphyro grew faint: 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 



XXVI. 

Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, 
'Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; 
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; 
Loosens lier fragrant boddice; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: 
Half -hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 



XXVII. 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest. 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; 



1 The fact that the light of the moon is not strong enough to cast colored shadows 
does not make this stanza a blemish upon the poem ; nor is it necassary to resort to 
Foreman's expedient of regarding the phenomenon as a miracle performed by St, 
Agnes. There is poetic if not scientific truth in it. 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 187 

Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; 
Blissfully haven^d both from joy and pain; 
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray; 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 

XXVIII. 

Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress. 
And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness; 
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, 
x\nd breath'd himself: then from the closet crept. 
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. 
And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept. 
And ^tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo! — how fast she 
slept. 

XXIX. 

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: — 
for some drowsy Morphean amulet! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone: — 
The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 

XXX. 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, 
While he from forth the closet ])rought a heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; 



188 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 

With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. 



XXXI. 

These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night, 
Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 
" And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! 
" Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: 
" Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." 



XXXII. 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk curtains: — 'twas a midnight charm 
Impossible to melt as iced stream: 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: 
It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes: 
So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be. 
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mnte. 
In Provence call'd, " La belle dame sans mercy: 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 189 

Close to her ear touching the melody; — 
Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan: 
He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: 
There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd 
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep 
At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, 
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. 

XXXV. 

" Ah, Porphyro! " said she, " but even now 
" Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 
'' Made tuneable with every sweetest vow; 
" And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: 
" How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear! 
" Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
" Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! 
^' Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, 
" For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go." 

XXXVI. 

Beyond a mortal man impassioned far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star 
Seen mid the sapphire heaven^s deep repose; 



190 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 

Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendeth its odour with the violet, — 
Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows 
Like Lovers alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 

XXXVII. 

^Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: 
^' This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! " 
^Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat: 
" No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! 
" Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. — 
" Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? 
" I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 
" Though thou forsakest a deceived thing; — 
" A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." 

XXXVIII. 

" My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! 
" Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? 
^^ Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed? 
" Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
" After so many hours of toil and quest, 
" A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
" Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 
" Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well 
*^ To trust, fair Madeline^ to no rude infidel. 

XXXIX. 

" Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land, 
" Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: 
"Arise — arise! the morning is at hand; — 
"The bloated wassailers will never heed: — 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS , 191 

'' Let us away, my love, with happy speed; 
" There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
" Drown'd all in Ehenish and the sleepy mead: 
"Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, 
" For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." 

XL. 

She hurried at his words, beset with fears. 
For there were sleeping dragons all around, 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. — 
In all the house was heard no human sound. 
A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, 
Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 



XLI. 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; 
Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide; 
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
With a huge empty flagon by his side: 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide: — 
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones; — 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 

XLIT. 

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe. 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 



192 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 

Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm. 
Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old 
Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform; 
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold. 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCL 

1. 

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,^ 

Alone and palely loitering; 
The sedge is wither'd from the lake, 

And no birds sing. 

2. 

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,^ 

So haggard and so woe-begone? 
The squirrel's granary is full. 

And the harvest's done. 

3. 

I see a lily on thy brow, 

AVith anguish moist and fever dew; 

And on thy cheek a fading rose 
Fast withereth too. 

4. 
I met a lady in the meads 

Full beautiful, a faery's child; 
Her hair was long, her foot was light, 

And her eyes were wild. 

> This is the reading in The Indicatar for May 10, 1820 (published by Leigh Hunt). 
Lord Houghton's copy reads : O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms. For other varia- 
tions consult Forman's Keats. 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 193 



I set her on my pacing steed, 

And nothing else saw all day long; 

For sideways would she lean, and sing 
A faery's song. 



I made a garland for her head. 

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; 
She look'd at me as she did love. 
And made sweet moan. 

7. 

She found me roots of relish sweet. 
And honey wild, and manna dew; 

And sure in language strange she said, 
I love thee true. 

8. 

She took me to her elfin grot,^ 

And there she gazed and sighed deep. 
And there I shut her wild sad eyes 

So kiss'd to sleep. 

9. 

And there we slumber'd on the moss. 
And there I dream'd, ah woe betide. 

The latest dream I ever dream'd 
On the cold hillside. 



» Lwd Houghton's version reads : 

She took me to her elfln grot. 

And there she wept, and siph'd full sore, 
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes 
With kisses four. 
13 



194 SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 



10. 

I saw pale kings, and princes too. 

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; 

Who ery'd — " La belle Dame sans merci 
Hath thee in thrall! " 

11. 

I saw their starv'd lips in the gloom 
With horrid warning gaped wide, 

And I awoke, and found me here 
On the cold hillside. 

12. 

And this is why I sojourn here 

Alone and palely loitering. 
Though the sedge is withered from the lake, 

And no birds sing. 



SONNET.^ 

Bright star, w^ould I were stedfast as thou art — 

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night 
And watching, with eternal lids apart. 

Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite, 
The moving waters at their priestlike task 

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores. 
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask 

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors — 



• written on a page facing "A Lover's Complaint," in a copy of Shakspere given 
by John Hamilton Reynolds to Keats, and by him to Severn. Composed in Dorset- 
shire, where Keats and Severn had landed on their way to Italy. They are the 
last lines known to have been written by Keats. 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS 195 

No — yet still stedfast, still unchangeable, 
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, 

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, 
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest. 

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breathy 
And so live ever — or else swoon to death. 

September (?), 1820.] 



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SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 



"SHE WALKS m BEAUTY/' 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And all that^s best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes: 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 
So soft, so calm, so eloquent. 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow. 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 

A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent! 

1814(?)] 

197 



198 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.^ 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold. 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen: 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, ^o 

And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill. 
And their hearts but once heav'd and forever grew still! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; 

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 20 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temples of Baal; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword. 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! 
Published 1815.] 



1 See " Isaiah " xxxvii. 14-36. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 19? 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee; 
And Hke music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me: 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing 
The waves lie still and gleaming, 
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming. 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep; 

Whose breast is gently heaving, 
As an infant's 'sleep: 

So the spirit bows before thee, 

To listen and adore thee; 

With a full but soft emotion. 

Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.^ 

Though the day of my destiny's over, 

And the star of my fate hath declined, 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find; 
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, 

It shrunk not to share it with me. 
And the love which my spirit hath painted 

It never hath found but in iliee. 



> Byron's half sister, the Honorable Mrs. Leigh, for whom Byron always felt the 
deepest affection, and who was with him during his trouble with Lady Byron. 



200 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Then when nature around me is smihng, 

The last smile which answers to mine, lo 

I do not believe it beguiling, 

Because it reminds me of thine; 
And when winds are at war with the ocean. 

As the breasts I believed in with me. 
If their billows excite an emotion. 

It is that they bear me from thee. 

Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, 

And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd 

To pain — it shall not be its slave. 20 

There is many a pang to pursue me: 

They may crush, but they shall not contemn — 
They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 

^Tis of thee that I think — not of them. 

Though human, thou didst not deceive me. 

Though woman, thou didst not forsake, 
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, 

Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake, — 
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me. 

Though parted, it was not to fly, 30 

Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, 

Nor, mute, that the w^orld might belie. 

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 

Nor the war of the many with one; 
If my soul w^as not fitted to prize it, 

'Twas folly not sooner to shun: 
And if dearly that error hath cost me. 

And more than I once could foresee, 
I have found that, whatever it lost me. 

It could not deprive me of thee. 40 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 201 

From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd, 

Thus much I at least may recall, 
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd 

Deserved to be dearest of all: 
In the desert a fountain is springing, 

In the wide waste there still is a tree. 
And a bird in the solitude singing. 

Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 

July 24, 1816.] 

THE DREAM.i 



Our life is twofold: Sleep hath its own world, 

A boundary between the things misnamed 

Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world. 

And a wide realm of wild reality. 

And dreams in their developement have breath. 

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; 

They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts. 

They take a weight from off our waking toils. 

They do divide our being; they become 

A portion of ourselves as of our time, lo 

And look like heralds of eternity; 

They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 

Like sibyls of the future; they have power — 

The tyranny of pleasure and of pain; 

They make us what we were not — what they will. 

And shake us with the vision that's gone by, 

The dread of vanish'd shadows — Are they so ? 

Is not the past all shadoAv? What are they? 



1 Byron's imagination was fired by his love for Mary Chaworth, for their union 
would have healed a family feud. Moore says that "The Dream " " cost him many 
a tear in writing." It was written in Switzerland, in the summer of 1816, when he 
was still suffering from the deadly attacks of Lady Byron's friends. 



202 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Creations of the mind? — The mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 20 

With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
I would recall a vision which I dream'd 
Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years. 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 

IT. 

I saw two beings in the hues of youth 

Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill. 

Green and of mild declivity, the last 

As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such, 30 

Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 

But a most living landscape, and the wave 

Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 

Scatter'd at intervals, and wTcathing smoke 

Arising from such rustic roofs; — the hill 

Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 

Of trees/ in circular array, so fix'd. 

Not by the sport of nature, but of man: 

These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 

Gazing — tlie one on all that was beneath « 

Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her; 

And both were young, and one was beautiful: 

And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 

As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge. 

The maid was on the eve of womanhood; 

The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 

Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 

There was but one beloved face on earth, 



1 The " diadem of trees " has long ceased to stand ; in a fit of jealous anger at the 
poem, Mr. Musters levelled the place with the ground. Elze's " Byron," p, 48. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 203 ] 

And that was shining on him; he had look'd 

Upon it till it could not pass away; so ' 

He had no breath, no being, but in hers: 

She was his voice; he did not speak to her, 

Bnt trembled on her words; she was his sight, j 

For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers. 

Which coloured all his objects: — he had ceased 

To live within himself; she was his life, . 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts, ■ 

Which terminated all: upon a tone, i 

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, \ 

And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart eo j 

Unknowing of its cause of agony. 

But she in these fond feelings had no share: j 

Her sighs were not for him; to her he was \ 

Even as a brother^but no more; 'twas much, \ 

For brotherless she was, save in the name ] 

Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him; ' \ 

Herself the solitary scion left '■ 

Of a time-honour'd race. — It was a name ^ 

Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and why? \ 

Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved to 

Another; even 7iotu she loved another, i 

And on the summit of that hill she stood • 

Looking afar if yet her lover's stee~d ! 

Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. j 



III. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
There was an ancient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparison'd: 
Within an antique Oratory stood 
The Boy of whom I spake: — he was alone. 
And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon 



204 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 

Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd 

His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 

With a convulsion — then arose again. 

And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 

What he had written, but he shed no tears. 

And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 

Into a kind of quiet: as he paused. 

The Lady of his love re-enter'd there; 

She was serene and smiling then, and yet 9o 

She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew. 

For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 

Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 

That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 

He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 

He took her hand; a moment o'er his face 

A tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, and then it faded, as it came; 

He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps 

Eetired, but not as bidding her adieu, loo 

For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass'd 

From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 

And mounting on his steed he went his way; 

And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 



IV. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds 

Of fiery climes he made himself a home. 

And his soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt 

With strange and dusky aspects; he was not 

Himself like what he had been; on the sea no 

And on the shore he was a wanderer; 

There was a mass of many images 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON . 205 

Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 

A part of all; and in the last he lay 

Eeposing from the noontide sultriness, 

Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 

Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 

Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping side 

Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 

Were fastened near a fountain; and a man 120 

Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while. 

While many of his tribe slumber'd around: 

And they were canopied by the blue sky. 

So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful. 

That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. 



V. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Lady of his love was wed with One 

Who did not love her better: — in her home, 

A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 

She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, i30 

Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold! 

Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 

The settled shadow of an inward strife, 

And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 

As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 

What could her grief be? — she had all she loved, 

And he who had so loved her was not there 

To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 

Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 

What could her grief be? — she had loved him not, ho 

Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 

N'or could he be a part of that which prey'd 

Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 



206 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

VI. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Wanderer was return'd. — I saw him stand 

Before an Altar — with a gentle bride; 

Her face was fair, but was not that which made 

The Starlight of his Boyhood; — as he stood 

Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 

The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock iso 

That in the antique Oratory shook 

His bosom in its solitude; and then — 

As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 

The tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced — and then it faded as it came. 

And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 

The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 

And all things reel'd around him; he could see 

Not that which was, nor that which should have been — 

But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, leo 

And the rem ember 'd chambers, and the place. 

The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, 

All things pertaining to that place and hour, 

And her who was his destiny, came back 

And thrust themselves between him and the light: 

What business had they there at such a time ? 

VII. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Lady of his love; — Oh! she was changed,^ 

As by the sickness of the soul; her mind 

Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes i^o 

They had not their own lustre, but the look 

Which is not of the earth; she was become 



1 Miss Chaworth was not happy in her marriage with Mr. Musters, and her mind 
gave way. She and her husband were separated. 



SELECTIONS PROM BYRON 207 i 

The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts 

Were eomhinations of disjointed things; j 

And forms impalpable and unperceived 1 

Of others' sight familiar were to hers. j 

And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise i 

Have a far deeper madness, and the glance ^ 

Of melancholy is a fearful gift; : 

What is it but the telescope of truth? so j 

Which strips the distance of its phantasies, \ 

And brings life near in utter nakedness, ' j 

Making the cold reality too real! j 

1 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. • 

The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, \ 
The beings which surrounded him were gone, 

Or were at war with him; he was a mark : 

For blight and desolation, compass'd round i 

With Hatred and Contention: Pain was mix'd i 

In all which was served up to him, until, 190 ; 

Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, ; 

He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 1 

But were a kind of nutriment; he lived ■ 

Through that which had been death to many men, ] 

And made him friends of mountains: with the stars 1 

And the quick Spirit of the Universe \ 

He held his dialogues! and they did teach i 

To him the magic of their mysteries; I 

To him the book of Xight was open'd wide, ! 

And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 200 j 

A marvel and a secret — Be it so. j 

i 

1 

TX. « 

My dream was past; it had no further change. ! 

It was of a strange order, that the doom i 

1 



208 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 

Almost like a reality — the one 

To end in madness — both in misery. 

Diodati, July, 1816.] 



TO THOMAS MOORE.^ 

My boat is on the shore, 

And my bark is on the sea; 
But, before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here's a double health to thee! 

Here's a sigh to those who love me, 
And a smile to those who hate; 

And, whatever sky's above me. 
Here's a heart for every fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me, 
Yet it still shall bear me on; 

Though a desert should surround me, 
It hath springs that may be won. 

Were't the last drop in the well, 
As I gasp'd upon the brink. 

Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'Tis to thee that I would drink. 

With that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — peace with thine and mine. 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore.- 



1 Byron's poetry is full of his admiration and affection for Moore. 

2 This should have been written fifteen moons ago : the first stanza was.— "Lord 
Byron to Moore," July 10, 1817. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 209 



CHILDE HAROLD. 

CANTO THE THIRD.^ 
(WATERLOO.) 

XXI. 

There was a sound of revelry by niglit. 
And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; 
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again. 
And all went merry as a marriage bell; 
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! 

XXII. 

Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 
But hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 
Arm! arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar! 

1 Two cantos of " Childe Harold " were written during Byron's first travels throncrh 
the Mediterranean countries. The last two, less personal and less morbid, form part 
of the harvest of the years 1816-1817. They are the record of the thouchts which rose 
in Byron's mind in connection with the various places he visited as he travelled or 
rested, on his way southward from England ; they are specially remarkable for their 
brilliant descriptions and for the stronsr historic sympathies which they display. 

For this edition it has been deemed best to consider these cantos as made up of 
separate poems, as indeed they properly are, and to make selections from among the 
poems, rather than to insert a continuous section of either canto. 



210 SELECTIONS PROM BYRON 

XXIII. 

Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival. 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; 
And when they smiled because he deemed it near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: 
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, feil. 

XXIV. 

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro. 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress. 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! 

XXV. 

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed. 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips — "The foe! They come! 
they come! " 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 211 



XXYI. 



And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: — 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! 



XXYII. 

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves. 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valour, rolling on the foe 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 



XXYIII. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay. 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife. 
The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
Battle's magnificently stern array! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
The earth is' covered thick with other clay. 
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 
Eider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent! 



212 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

(DRACHENFELS.) 
1. 

The castled crag of Drachenfels 
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Ehine, 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
Between the banks which bear the vine. 
And hills all rich with blossomed trees. 
And fields which promise corn and wine, 
And scattered cities crowning these, 
Whose far white walls along them shine. 
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see 
With double joy wert tliou'^ with me. 

2. 

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes. 
And hands which offer early flowers. 
Walk smiling o'er this paradise; 
Above, the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lift their walls of grey, 
And many a rock which steeply lowers. 
And noble arch in proud decay. 
Look o'er this vale of vintage bowers; 
But one thing want these banks of Ehine, — 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine! 

3. 

I send the lilies given to me; 
Though long before thy hand they touch, 
I know that they must wither'd be. 
But yet reject them not as such; 

' Byron's sister. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 213 

For I have cherish'd them as dear. 
Because they yet may meet thine eye. 
And guide thy soul to mine even here. 
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh. 
And know'st them gathered by the Rhine, 
And offer d from my heart to thine! 



4. 

The river nobly foams and flows. 

The charm of this enchanted ground. 

And all its thousand turns disclose 

Some fresher beauty varying round: 

The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 

Through life to dwell delighted here; 

Nor could on earth a spot be found 

To Nature and to me so dear, 

Could thy dear eyes in following mine 

Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine! 



(LAKE GENEVA.) | 

-> ] 

LXXXV. I 

j 

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, j 

With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing j 

AA^hich warns me, with its stillness, to forsake i 

Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. i 

This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing I 

To waft me from distraction; once I loved ! 

Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring I 

Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved, i 

That I with stern delights should e'er have been so | 

moved. l 



214 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LXXXVI. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen. 
Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep; and drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore. 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more; 

LXXXYII. 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill. 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil. 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 

LXXXVIII. 

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven. 
That in our aspirations to be great. 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar. 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a 
star. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 215 



LXXXIX. 



All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep. 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: — 
All heaven and earth are still : From the high host 
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast. 
All is concentered in a life intense, 
AVhere not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost. 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 



xc. 

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In solitude, where we are least alone; 
A truth, which through our being then doth melt. 
And purifies from self: it is a tone, 
The soul and source of music, which makes known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm. 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone. 
Binding all things with beauty; — 'twould disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. 



xci. 

Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take 
A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek 
The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, 
TTpreared of human hands. Come, and compare 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray'r! 



216 SELECTIONS PROM BYRON 

XCII. 

The sky is changed! — and such a change! Oh night. 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong. 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along. 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud. 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue. 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud. 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! 



XCIII. 

And this is in the night: — Most glorious night! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea. 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth. 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 



xciv. 

Now, where the swift Eh one cleaves his way between 
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; 
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, 
Love was the very root of the fond ra^e 
^^^l^ch blighted their life's bloom, and then departed: — 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 217 



XCV. 



Now, where the quick Ehone thus hath cleft his way. 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand; 
For here, not one, but many, make their play. 
And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand. 
Flashing and cast around: of all the band, 
The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd 
His lightnings, — as if he did understand. 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd, 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. 

XCVI. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful; the far roll 
Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
But where of ye, tempests! is the goal? 
Are ye like those within the human breast? 
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 
(VENICE.) 



I stood in A^enice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 
A palace and a prison on each hand: 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 



218 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles! 



II. 

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean. 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers: 
And such she was; — her daughters had their dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. 

III. 

In A^enice, Tasso's echoes are no more,^ 
And silent rows the songless gondolier; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore. 
And music meets not always now the ear: 
Those days are gone — but Beauty still is here. 
States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die, 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear. 
The pleasant place of all festivity, 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! 

IV. 

But unto us she hath a spell beyond 

Her name in story, and her long array 

Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 

Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway; 

1 The Gondolierp used formerly to pine a Venetian version of Tasso's " (reruealem- 
me Liberata," answering each other in alternate stanzas, sometimes from a long 
distance. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 219 

Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Kialto; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre/ cannot be swept or worn away — 
The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, 
For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 



XI. 

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; 
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, 
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 
Neglected garment of her widowhood! 
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power. 
Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued. 
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
When Venice was a queen with an unequalFd dower. 

XII. 

The Suabian - sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt; 
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt; 
Oh for one hour of blind old Dondolo! 
Til' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 

XIII. 

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun; 

• The hero of Otway's tracrody, " Venice Preserved." In Byron's time the charac- 
ter was a favorite on the stage. 2 Frederic Barbarossa. 



220 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

But is not Doria's menace come to pass? 
Are they not hridled? — Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose! 
Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, 
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes. 
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose.^ 



XIV. 

In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre; 
Her very byword sprung from victory. 
The " Planter of the Lion,'^ which through fire 
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea; 
Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite; 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 



XV. 

Statues of glass — all shiver' d — the long file 
Of her dead Doges are declined to dust; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. 



1 The enforced subjection of Venice to Austria from 1797-1866 was the theme of 
mourning or indignation for many a poet. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 221 

XVI. 

When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war. 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 
Her voice their only ransom from afar: 
See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains. 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. 



XVII. 

Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot. 
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine. 
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion! to thee: the Ocean queen should not 
Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. 



XVIII. 

I loved her from my boyhood; she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
Rising like water-columns from the sea. 
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; 
And Otway, Radcliife, Schiller, Shakspeare's art. 
Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so. 
Although I found her thus, we did not part. 
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 



222 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

(SUNSET IN THE RH^TIAN ALPS.) 
XXVII. 

The moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be, — 
Melted to one vast Iris of the West, — 
Where the Day joins the past Eternity; 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest! 

XXVIII. 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
Eoird o'er the peak of the far Ehcetian hill. 
As Day and Night contending were, until 
Nature reclaim'd her order: — gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 
Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it 
glows, 

XXIX. 

Fiird with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 
Comes down upon the waters; all its hues. 
From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
Their magical variety diffuse: 
And noAv they change; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
With a new colour as it gasps away. 
The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 223 

(ARQUA.) 
XXX. 

There is a tomb in Arqiia; — rear'd in air, 
Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura's lover: here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung woes, 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes: 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 

XXXI. 

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; 
The mountain-village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride — 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise. 
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
,His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain 
Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 

XXXII. 

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
For those who their mortality have felt, 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade. 
Which shows a distant prospect far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd, 
For they can lure no further; and the ray 
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday. 



224 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

XXXIII. 

Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers. 
And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, 
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
Idlesse it seem, hath its morali'y. 
If from society we learn to live, 
^Tis solitude should teach us how to die; 
It hath no flatterers; vanity can give 
No hollow aid; alone — man with his God must strive. 



(ITALY.) 

XLII. 

Italia! Oh Italia! thou who hast 
The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
A funeral dower of present woes and past. 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame, 
And annals graved in characters of flame. 
Oh, God! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress; 

XLIII. 

Then might'st thou more appal; or, less desired. 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For thy destructive charms; then, still untired. 
Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde 
Of many-nationed spoilers from the Po 
Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword 
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 225 

(SANTA CROCE.) 
LIV. 

In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortality, 
Though there were nothing save the past, and this, 
The particle of those sublimities 
AVhich have relapsed to chaos: — here repose 
Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his, 
The starry Galileo, with his woes; 
Here Machiavelli's earth return'd to whence it rose. 

LV. 

These are four minds, which, like the elements, 
Might furnish forth creation: — Italy! 
Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand rents 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny. 
And hath denied, to every other sky, 
Spirits which soar from ruin: — thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity, 
WTiich gilds it with revivifying ray; 
Such as the great of jore, Canova is to-day. 

LVI. 

But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they. 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay 
Their bones, distinguished from our common clay 
In death as life? Are they resolved to dust. 
And have their country's marbles nought to say? 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust? 
Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust? 



226 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

LVII. 

Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar. 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore: 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
Their children's children would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages; and the crown 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 
His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thine own. 

LVIII. 

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd 
His dust,— and lies it not her Great among. 
With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue? 
That music in itself, whose sounds are song. 
The poetry of speech? No; — even his tomb 
Uptorn, must bear the hysena bigot's wrong, 
Xo more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom! 



LIX. 

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust. 
Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more: 
Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore. 
Fortress of falling empire! honour'd sleeps 
The immortal exile; — Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead and weeps. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYROJ^ 227 

LX. 

What is her pyramid of precious stones? 
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes? the momentary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead. 
Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. 

(VELINO.) 
LXIX. 

The roar of waters! — from the headlong height 
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice; 
The fall of waters! rapid as the light 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss; 
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss, 
And boil in endless torture; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 

LXX. 

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round. 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain. 
Is an eternal April to the ground. 
Making it all one emerald: — how profound 
The gulf! and how^ the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent 
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent 



228 SELECTIONS PROM BYRON 

LXXI. 

To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly. 
With many windings, through the vale: — Look back! 
Lo! where it comes like an eternity. 
As if to sweep down all things in its track. 
Charming the eye with dread, — a matchless cataract, 

LXXII. 

Horribly beautiful! but on the verge. 
From side to side, beneath the glittering morn. 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge. 
Like Hope upon a deathbed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
By the distracted waters, bears serene 
Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn: 
Resembling, mid the torture of the scene, 
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 



(ROME.) 
LXXVIII. 

Oh Rome! ^ my country! city of the soul! 

The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 

Lone mother of dead empires! and control 

In their shut breasts their petty misery. 

What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see 

' " I have been some days in Rome the Wonderful. I am delijrhted with Rome. 
As a whole— ancient and modern.— it beats Greece, Constantinople, everything— at 
least that I have ever seen."— " Byron Letters," May, 1817. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 229 

The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye! 
Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 



LXXIX. 

The Niohe of nations! there she stands 



Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe; 
An empty urn within her withered hands, 
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago; 
The Scipios' tomb ^ contains no ashes now; 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow. 
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress! 

LXXX. 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hilled city's pride; 
She saw her glories star by star expire. 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride. 
Where the car climb'd the capitol; far and wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site: — 
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
And say, " here was, or is," where all is doubly night? 

LXXXI. 

The double night of ages, and of her. 

Night's daughter. Ignorance, hath wrapt, and wrap 



1 For the references in Byron's poetry see any good classical dictionary and the 
encyclopaedia. 



230 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

All round us; we but feel our way to err: 
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, 
And KnoAvledge spreads them on her ample lap; 
But Eome is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap 
Our hands, and cry, " Eureka! " it is clear — 
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 

LXXXII. 

Alas! the lofty city! and alas! 
The trebly hundred ^ triumphs! and the day 
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away! 
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay. 
And Livy's pictured page! — But these shall be 
Her resurrection; all beside — decay. 
Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see 
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free! 



(THE COLISEUM.) 
CXXVIII. 

Arches on arches! as it were that Eome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line. 
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome. 
Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine 
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 



I It is recorded that Roman generals " triumphed " three hundred and twenty times 
in honor of victories over foreign nations. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 231 



CXXIX. 



Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in the ruin'd battlement, 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 



CXXXIX. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 

In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause. 

As man was slaughter'd by his fellow-man. 

And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, but because 

Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, ; 

And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not? j 

What matters where we fall to fill the maws " | 

Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot? j 

Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 1 

I 

CXL. : 

I see before me the Gladiator^ lie: ; 

He leans upon his hand — his manly brow j 

Consents to death, but conquers agony, 1 

And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 

And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 

From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, ' 

Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now ' 



1 Now srenerally known as the Dyinsr Gaul, a work of the third centuiy B. c. See 
Liibke's " History of Sculpture," I., p. 244. 



232 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which haiFd the wretch who 
won. 

CXLI. 

He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away; 
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize. 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
ButcherM to make a Eoman holiday — 
All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he expire 
And unavenged? — Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire! 

CXLII. 

But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam; 
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways. 
And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream 
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; 
Here, where the Eoman million's blame or praise 
AVas death or life, the playthings of a crowd/ 
My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint rays 
On the arena void — seats crushed — walls bow'd — 
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. 

CXLIII. 

A ruin — yet what ruin! from its mass 

Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd; 

Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass 

And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 



1 Perhaps everyone knows that a Roman audience decided the fate of a wounded 
gladiator, by turning their thumbs up or down. Thumbs down meant death. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 233 

Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd? 
Alas! developed, opens the decay, 
When the colossal fabric's form is near'd: 
It will not bear the brightness of the day, 
Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft 
away. 



CXLIV. 

But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear. 
Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head; 
When the light shines serene but doth not glare, 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead: 
Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye tread. 



CXLV. 

^' While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; j 

" When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; 1 

*^And when Rome falls — the World." From our own | 

land j 

Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall j 

In Saxon times, which we are wont to call ^ 

Ancient; and these three mortal things are still j 

On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; j 

Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, | 

The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what ye 

will. 



234 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

(APOLLO BELVIDERE.) 
CLXI. 

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, 
The God of life, and poesy, and light — 
The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight; 
The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 
With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might. 
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, 
Developing in that one glance the Deity. 

CLXII. 

But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, 
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
Long'd for a deathless lover from above. 
And madden'd in that vision — are exprest 
All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
The mind within its most unearthly mood. 
When each conception was a heavenly guest — 
A ray of immortality — and stood, 
Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god! 

CLXIII. 

And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
By him to whom the energy was given 
Which this poetic marble hath array'd 
With an eternal glory — which, if made 
By human hands, is not of human thought; 
And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid 
One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught 
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas 
wrought. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 2d5 

(DIKGE FOR THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.) 
CLXVII. 

Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds/ 
A long, low distant murmur of dread sound, 
Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound; 
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground, 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd, 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. 

CLXVIII. 

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? 
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay lovr 
Some less majestic, less beloved head? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled. 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
Death hush'd that pang for ever: with thee fled 
The present happiness and promised joy 
Which fiird the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. 

CLXIX. 

Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 

Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored! 

Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, 

And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 

Her many griefs for One; for she had pour'd 



^ The Princess Charlotte was almost the only member of the royal family who 
was beloved by the nation, and her early death, in 1817, made a deep impression upon 
all Englishmen. 



236 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord/ 
And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed! 
The husband of a year! the father of the dead! 



CLXX. 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made; 
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes: in the dust 
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid. 
The love of millions! How we did entrust 
Futurity to her! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 
Like stars to shepherd's eyes: — 'twas but a meteor beam'd. 

CLXXI. 

Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstunj 
Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate 
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung 
Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, — 

CLXXII. 

These might have been her destiny; but no, 
Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair, 

1 Leopold, afterwards King of Belgium. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 237 

Good without effort, great without a foe; 
But now a bride and mother — and now there ! 
How many ties did that stern moment tear! 
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest 
The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best. 



(THE OCEAN.) 
CLXXV. 

But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won. 
And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea; 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me, 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxineroll'd 



CLXXVI. 

Upon the blue Symplegades: long years — 
Long, though not very many, since have done 
Their work on both; some suffering and some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun: 
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run. 
We have had our reward — and it is here; 
That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun. 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. 



238 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

CLXXVII. 

Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place. 
With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
That I might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her! 
Ye Elements! — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 
Accord me such a being? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 



CLXXVIII. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods. 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, Avhere none intrudes, 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before. 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 



CLXXIX. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean— roll! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain . 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. 



SELECTIONS PROM BYRON 239 

CLXXX. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
Are not a sj)oil for him, — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay. 
And dashest him again to earth: — there let him lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake. 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

CLXXXII. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? 
Thy waters wash'd them power while they were free. 
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts: — not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 



240 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

CLXXXIII. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time. 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm. 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime — 
The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone 
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

CLXXXIV. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean! ^ and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear. 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy' billows far and near. 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 



1 From his boyhood, Byron loved the grandeur both of the mountains and of the 
sea. In later life he often referred to the impression made upon him at the age of 
eight by the Scotch Highlands ; and his intercourse with the wild solemnity of the 
northern ocean during his childhood had a profound influence upon his whole life. 
Cf. "Childe Harold," III., 72-75, "The Island," XH., etc. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 24:1 

THE ISLES OF GEEECE. 



The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

2. 

The Scian ^ and the Teian ^ muse, 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse; 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo further west 

Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 

3. 

The mountains look on Marathon — 
And Marathon looks on the sea; 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dream'd that Greece might still be free; 

For standing on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

4. 

A king sat on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
And men in nations; — all were his! 



1 Homer. "^ Anacreon. 



242 SELECTIONS PROM BYRON 

He counted tliem at break of day — 
And when the sun set where were they? 

5. 

And where are they? and where art thou, 
My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

6. 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame. 
Though link'd among a fetter'd race. 

To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face; 

For what is left the poet here? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

7. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 

Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth! render back from out thy breast 
A remnant of our Spartan dead! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, , 
To make a new Thermopylae! 

8. 

What, silent still? and silent all? 

Ah! no; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, " Let one living head, 
But one arise, — we come, we come! " 
'Tis but the livincr who are dumb. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 243 

9. 

In vain — in vain: strike other chords; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine! 
Leave battles to the Turkisli hordes. 

And slied the blood of Scio's vine! 
Hark! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold Bacchanal! 



10. 

Yon have the Pyrrhic dance as )^et, 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave? 



11. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

We will not think of themes like these! 
It made Anacreon's song divine: 

He served — ^but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 



12. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; 
That tyrant was Miltiades! 

Oh! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 



244 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

13. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

14. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells: 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 

Would break 3^our shield, however broad. 

15. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine; 

But gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

16. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die: 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! 

" Don Juan," Canto III., 1819.] 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 245 



1821.] 



TO MR. MUREAY. 

For Oxford ^ and for Waldegrave J 
You gave much more than me you gave; 
Which is not fairly to behave, 

My Murray. 

Because if a live dog, 't is said, 

Be worth a lion fairly sped, 

A live lord must be worth two dead. 

My Murray. 

And if, as the opinion goes. 
Verse hath a better sale than prose, — 
Certes, I should have more than those,^ 

My Murray. 

But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd. 
So, if you luill, I shan't be shamm'd, 
And if you wonH, you may be damn'd,* 

My Murray. 



1 " Memoirs of the Last Ten Years of the Reign of George II ," by Horace Walpole. 
^ Memoirs by James Earl Waldegrave. 

* When Byron began to write he refused payment ; later he drove hard bargains. 

* Byron discovered his genius for satire only when he took up the stanza of " Don 
Juan." "The Vision of Judgment," written in the same metre, gives in moderate 
compass the best idea of his mastery of the satiric vein. 



246 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 



STANZAS WEITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN 
FLORENCE AND PISA.^ 

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory; 
And tlie myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 
'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled. 
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! 
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? 

Oh, Fame! — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
The thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 

There chiefly I sought thee, tliere only I found thee: 
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 



1 1 composed these stanzas (except the fourth, added now) a few days ago, on the 
road from Florence to Pisa.— Byron's "Diary," November 6, 1821. 



SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 247 



ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH 
YEAR.^ 

MissoLONGHi, January 22, 1824. 

J 
'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, j 

Since others it hath ceased to move: j 

Yet, though I cannot be beloved, I 

Still let me love! i 

i 

My days are in the yellow leaf; i 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; ' 

The worm, the canker, and the grief ; 

Are mine alone! ^ 

The fire that on my bosom preys j 

Is lone as some volcanic isle; : 

No torch is kindled at its blaze — i 

A funeral pile. \ 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, j 

The exalted portion of the pain j 

And power of love, I cannot share, 5 

But wear the chain. \ 

But 'tis not thihs — and 'tis not here — | 

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, ! 

Where glory decks the hero's bier, j 

Or binds his brow. j 



' Byron wrote these stanzas upon the complaint of his friends that he had ceased 
to A\Tite poetry. They are his last verses. 



248 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece, around me see! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
Was not more free. 

Awake! (not Greece — she is awake!) 

Awake, my spirit! Think through whom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
And then strike home! 

Tread those reviving passions down. 
Unworthy manhood! — unto thee 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live? 

The land of honourable death 
Is here: — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath! 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
And take thy rest. 



INDEXES 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



PAGE 

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 32 

A glorious people vibrated again 129 

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight 192 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights 102 

And is this — Yarrow? — This the Stream 52 

An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king 116 

Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome 230 

Arethusa arose 139 

Ariel to Miranda. — Take 150 

A thing of beauty is a joy forever 158 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth 165 

Behold her, single in the field 17 

Bright star, would I were stedf ast as thou art 1 94 

But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won 237 

Charles ! my slow heart was only sad, when first 59 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake 213 

Earth has not anything to show more fair 11 

England ! The time has come when thou should'st wean 21 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 55 

Ever let the Fancy roam 162 

Five years have past ; five summers, with the length 1 

For Oxford and for VValdegrave 245 

From Stirling Castle we had seen 18 

From the forests and highlands 1 43 

Glory and loveliness have pass'd away 157 

Great men have been among us ; hands that penned 14 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 125 

Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds 235 

High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate 40 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers 122 

Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood 13 

251 



252 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 225 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 83 

I stood in "Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs 217 

Italia ! Oh Italia ! thou who hast 224 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free 12 

It is an ancient Mariner 60 

It is not to be thought of that the Flood 15 

It keeps eternal whisperings around 161 

I travelled among unknown men 9 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 25 

Life of Life ! thy lips enkindle .121 

Milton ! thou should'st be living at this hour 14 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold 156 

My boat is on the shore 208 

My coursers are fed with the lightning 121 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 168 

My pensive Sara ! thy soft cheek reclined 57 

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist- 176 

Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong glance 155 

O blithe New-comer ! I have heard 22 

O Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 173 

Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 228 

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story 246 

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee 13 

Orphan hours, the year is dead 146 

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow 234 

O Solitude ! if I must with thee dwell 155 

Our life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world 201 

O, wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being 116 

Rarely, rarely, comest thou 147 

St. Agnes' Eve— Ah, bitter chill it was ! 177 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness 175 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 8 

She walks in beauty, like the night 197 

She was a Phantom of delight 2-^ 

Souls of Poets dead and gone 1*^'^' 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God 26 

Swiftly walk o'er the western wave 149 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold 198 

The awful shadow of some unseen Power Ill 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 253 

PAGE 

The castled crag of Drachenfels 213 

The Frost performs its secret ministry 99 

The isles of Greece, the isles of (ireece ! 241 

The moon is up, and yet it is not night 222 

The poetry of earth is never dead 157 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 199 

There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear 31 

There is a Tomb in Arqua ; — rear'd in air 223 

There was a sound of revelry by night 209 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream 33 

The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height 227 

The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie 142 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear 114 

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing 145 

The world is too much with us : late or soon 31 

Though the day of my destiny's over 199 

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness. 171 

Three years she grew in sun and shower 10 

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved 247 

'Tis the middle of the night by the castle clock 85 

To the deep, to the deep 119 

Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea 40 

Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books, 7 

Well ! if the Bard was weatherwise, who made 105 

" What, you are stepping westward ? " — "Yea " 16 

When I have fears that I may cease to be 162 

Where art thou, beloved To-morrow ? 150 

Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go ? 83 

Who is the happy Warrior ? Who is he 28 

Why, William, on that old grey stone 6 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky 30 

With sacrifice before the rising morn 46 

Ye Clouds ! that far above me float and pause 96 



INDEX OF POEMS 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

PAGE 

Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey 1 

Expostulation and Reply 6 

The Tables Turned 7 

" She dwelt among the untrodden ways " 8 

' ' I travelled among unknown men " 9 

" Three Years she grew in sun and shower " 10 

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 11 

"It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free" 13 

On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic 13 

September, 1803. Near Dover 13 

London, 1803 14 

"Great men have been among us; hands that penned" 14 

"It is not to be thought of that the Flood" 15 

Stepping Westward 16 

The Solitary Reaper 17 

Yarrow Unvisited 18 

"England! the time is come when thou should'st wean".. 31 

" There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear " 31 

To THE Cuckoo 33 

" She was a Phantom of delight " 33 

The Daffodils 25 

Ode to Duty 36 

Character of the Happy Warrior 28 

"With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky"... 30 

"The world is too much with us: late and soon" 31 

" a flock of sheep that leisurely pass by " 33 

" Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go ?" 33 

Ode : Intimations of Immortality 33 

Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland. 40 

Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle 40 

Laodamia 46 

Yarrow Visited, September, 1814 53 

To A Skt-lark 55 

355 



256 INDEX OF POEMS 

SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE. 

PAGE 

The Eolian Harp 57 

Sonnet to a Friend 59 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 60 

KuBLA Khan 83 

Christabel. Part 1 85 

France: An Ode.. 96 

Frost at Midnight 99 

Love 102 

Dejection : An Ode 105 



SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY. 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty Ill 

Stanzas Written in Dejection, near Naples 114 

England in 1819 116 

Ode to the West Wind 116 

Lyrics from Prometheus Unbound. 

Song of Spirits 119 

Spirit 131 

Hymn to Asia 131 

The Cloud 133 

To A Skylark 135 

Ode to Liberty 139 

Arethusa 139 

Hymn of Apollo 143 

Hymn of Pan ! 143 

Autumn : A Dirge 145 

Dirge for the Year 146 

Song. " Rarely, rarely, coraest thou " 147 

To Night 149 

To-MoRROW 150 

With a Guitar ; to Jane 150 



SELECTIONS FROM KEATS. 

To G. A. W 155 

To Solitude 155 

On first looking into Chapman's Homer . . 156 

On the Grasshopper and Cricket. 157 

Dedication. To Leigh Hunt, Esq 157 

The opening stanzas of Endymion 158 

Sonnet : On the Sea 161 

Sonnet : " When I have fears that I may cease to be " 163 



INDEX OF POEMS 257 

SELECTIONS FROM KEATS— CotUifiued. 

PAGE 

Fancy 162 

Ode. '' Bards of Passion and of Mirth " 165 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 167 

Ode to a Nightingale 168 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 171 

Ode to Psyche 173 

To Autumn 175 

Ode on Melancholy 176 

The Eve of St. Agnes 1 77 

La Belle Dame sans Merci 192 

Sonnet. ' ' Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art " 194 

SELECTIONS FROM BYRON. 

" She Walks in Beauty " 197 

The Destruction of Sennacherib 198 

Stanzas for Music 199 

Stanzas to Augusta 199 

The Dream 201 

To Thomas Moore 208 

Childe Harold. Canto III. (Waterloo) 209 

(Drachenfels) 212 

(Lake Geneva) 213 

Canto IV. (Venice) 217 

(Sunset in the Rhaetian Alps). . 222 

( Arqua) 223 

(Italy) 224 

(Santa Croce) 225 

(Velino) 227 

(Rome) 228 

(The Coliseum) 230 

(Apollo Belvedere) 234 

(Dirge for the Princess Charlotte) 235 

(The Ocean) 237 

The Isles of Greece 241 

To Mr. Murray 245 

Stanzas Written on the Road Between Florence and Pisa 246 
*'0n this Day I Complete My Thirty-sixth Year" 247 



JUN 29 ma 



